UNIVERSITY 
LOS 

OF  CALIFORNIA 
ANGELES 

THE  SEVEN-BRANCHED 
CANDLESTICK 

THE  SCHOOLDAYS  OF  YOUNG 
AMERICAN  JEW 

BY 

GILBERT   W.    GABRIEL 


A 


NEW  YORK 

BLOCH  PUBLISHING  COMPANY 

"The  Jewish  Book  Concern" 

1917 


Copyright.  1917 
BLOCH  PUBLISHING  COMPANY 


E/ff 


CONTENTS 

I.  BY  WAY   OF    PROLOGUE  .  .  5 

II.  IN  THE  BEGINNING  .  .  ,  16 

III.  FRIDAY    NIGHT        .  .  .  .25 

IV.  THE  BOY  AND  THE  SCHOOL     .  .  34 
V.  THE  MILITARY  ACADEMY           .           .  42 

VI.  MY  STEERFORTH     .  .51 

VII.  FRESHMAN  YEAR    ....  61 

VIII.  WITHIN  THE  GATES          ...  70 

IX.  MY  AUNT  AND  I       .  .  .  .  79 

X.  THE  RULES  OF  THE  GAME        .  .  88 

XI.  A  MAN'S  WORK        ....  98 

Xll.  THE  HEART  OF  JUDEA     .  .  .107 

XIII.  CHILD  AND  PARENT          ...          116 

XIV.  AN  UNGRATEFUL  NEPHEW       .  .          125 
XV.  COLLEGE  LIFE          ....         135 

XVI.  THE  HUN'S  INVASION      .  .  .144 

XVII.  MANY  IMPULSES     ....         154 

XVIII.  I  STAND  —  BUT  NOT  ASIDE        .  .          163 

XIX.  "BATTLE  ROYAL"  ...          172 

XX.  THE  CANDLES  ARE  LIGHTED    .  .         181 

3 


.. 
HRO-SOC. 


The  Seven- Branched  Candlestick 


i 

BY  WAY  OF  PROLOGUE 

"YEARS  of  Plenty"  was  the  name  an  English- 
man recently  gave  to  a  book  of  his  school  days. 
My  own  years  of  secondary  school  and  college 
were  different  from  his,  by  far,  but  no  less  full. 

I  shall  only  say  by  way  of  preface  that  they 
numbered  seven.  There  were  two  of  them  at 
high  school,  one  at  a  military  school  on  the  Hud- 
son, and  four  at  our  city's  university. 

Seven  in  all.  Because  they  were  not  altogether 
happy,  I  have  no  right  to  think  of  them  as  lean 
years.  For  each  one  of  them  meant  much  to  me — 
means  as  much  now  as  I  look  back  and  am  chas- 
tened and  strengthened  by  their  memory.  Each 
is  as  a  lighted  candle  in  the  dark  of  the  past  that 
I  look  back  upon.  And  I  like  to  imagine  that, 
since  there  are  seven  of  them,  they  are  in  the 
seven-branched  candlestick  which  is  so  stately 
and  so  reverent  a  symbol  of  my  Faith. 


6  THE  SEVEN-BRANCHED  CANDLESTICK 

For  it  was  my  school  days  which  gave  me 
that  Faith. 

Born  a  Jew,  I  was  not  one.  And  this  I  can 
blame  on  no  person  excepting  myself.  Before  my 
parents7  death,  they  had  urged  me,  pleaded 
with  me  to  go  to  Sunday  school  at  our 
reformed  synagogue,  to  attend  the  Saturday 
morning  services,  to  study  the  lore,  that  I 
might  be  confirmed  into  the  religion  of  my 
fathers.  That  they  did  not  absolutely  insist  upon 
it  was  because  they  wanted  me  to  come  to  my 
God  gratefully,  voluntarily,  considering  his  wor- 
ship an  exercise  of  love,  of  gladness,  and  not  a 
task  of  impatient  duty.  I  know  that  it  must 
have  grieved  them — I  know  it  now,  even  if  I 
only  half-guessed  it  then  in  that  distorted  but 
instinctive  way  that  boys  do  guess  things — and 
yet  they  said  little  to  me  of  it. 

Once  or  twice  a  year  they  took  me  with  them 
to  a  Friday  night  service.  I  was  too  young, 
perhaps.  I  am  willing  to  use  my  youth  as  an 
excuse  for  my  falling  asleep,  or  for  my  sitting 
uneasily,  squirming,  yawning,  heavy-eyed,  unin- 
terested, unmoved  .  .  .  hungry  only  to  be  out 
into  the  streets  again,  and  back  in  my  own  room 
at  home,  with  my  copy  of  "Pilgrim's  Progress," 
or  "The  Talisman,"  between  my  knees. 

At  best,  I  can  excuse  myself  only  because  I 
lived  in  a  neighborhood  distinctly  Christian.  It 


BY  WAY  OF  PROLOGUE  7 

was  on  one  of  those  old,  quiet  streets  of  the 
Columbia  Heights  section  of  Brooklyn  that  our 
house  stood.  There  was  a  priggish  sedateness  to 
it.  .  There  was  much  talk  on  either  hand  of  "fam- 
ily" :  the  Brooklyn  people — of  that  neighborhood, 
anyhow — seem  to  set  much  stock  by  their  early 
settling  ancestors.  Near  our  house  was  a  pre- 
paratory school  for  girls  and  another  for  boys; 
they  were  hotbeds  of  snobbery  and  prejudice, 
these  schools.  The  students  who  attended  them 
had  to  pass  down  our  block  on  their  way  home 
from  school.  Often,  when  they  saw  me  playing 
there,  some  of  them  would  stop  and  make  fun 
of  me  and  tease  me  with  remarks  about  the 
Jews.  I  was  a  boy  without  much  spirit.  I 
always  resented  the  taunts — but  I  always  lacked 
the  courage  to  call  back  .  .  .  and  if  my  eyes 
did  blaze  involuntarily  with  anger,  I  usually 
turned  away  so  that  these  bigger  boys  should 
not  be  able  to  see  them. 

My  fear  was  behind  it  all.  I  was  afraid  to 
fight  back.  And,  being  ashamed  of  my  cowardice, 
I  grew  quickly  ashamed  of  that  which  had  proved 
it.  I  grew  ashamed  of  being  a  Jew. 

Terribly,  bitterly  ashamed.  So  mortified,  in- 
deed, that  it  was  more  than  I  could  do  to  speak 
of  it  to  my  father.  And,  usually,  I  could  talk 
of  anything  to  him.  Once  he  himself  mentioned 
it  to  me:  asked  me  whether  I  was  not  proud  of 


8  THE  SEVEN-BRANCHED  CANDLESTICK 

my  race,  whether  I  could  not  look  with  true 
contempt  and  easy  forgiveness  upon  those  row- 
dies who  had  taunted  me.  I  tried  to  take  that 
attitude  .  .  .  but  I  was  not  big  and  strong 
enough  for  it.  I  tried  it  only  once — and  then 
one  of  the  big  bullies  of  that  fashionable  pre- 
paratory school,  on  his  way  down  the  block, 
grew  angry  at  my  lordly  unconcern  towards  his 
teasing,  and  hit  me  with  his  fist,  and  cut  my 
lip  open.  I  kicked  him  in  the  shins,  I  remember, 
and  ran  swiftly  away. 

That  didn't  help  matters.  I  was  as  much  a 
weakling  as  ever.  When  I  went  to  public  school, 
1  used  to  cry  with  a  snivelling  vexation  because 
the  toughs  of  my  class  made  fun  of  me.  One 
of  them  had  a  little  sister  in  the  class  below 
us,  and  I  was  very  fond  of  her.  I  remember  how, 
on  St.  Valentine's  day,  I  stole  into  her  class 
room  at  lunch  time  and,  while  she  was  absent, 
stuck  a  lacy,  gaudy  and  beribboned  missive  in  her 
desk.  I  didn't  understand,  then,  why  the  teacher 
tittered  so  nervously  when  I  asked  her  permission 
to  do  it.  But,  when  my  own  lunch  was  dono,  and 
I  was  back  at  my  desk,  I  lifted  the  lid  of  it  only  to 
find  that  same  valentine  rammed  into  one  corner, 
crushed  and  torn  almost  in  half,  and  scrawled 
•with  the  word,  "Sheeny !" 

Nor  did  the  little  romantic  flight  end  there. 
For  the  next  day,  after  sister  and  brother  had 


BY  WAY  OF  PROLOGUE  8 

been  comparing  notes,  the  former  marched 
straight  up  to  me,  pulled  my  nose,  and  warned 
me  to  keep  away,  once  and  for  all,  from  the  true 
American  daughter  of  a  true  American  family, 
and  to  confine  my  sentiments  to  "some  little 
Jew  girl!" 

I  knew  none  of  that  sort.  What  few  boys  and 
girls  of  my  own  race  I  had  met  at  playtime  or 
at  Sunday  school,  I  purposely  shunned.  I 
thought,  if  I  went  in  their  company,  I  should 
be  inviting  persecution.  I  thought  my  only  way 
to  escape  this  was  to  escape  all  Jewish  com- 
rades ...  to  deny  my  religion,  if  possible. 
I  was  so  utterly  ashamed  of  it! 

Thus  I  went,  with  all  of  a  child's  fear  and 
a  child's  cowardice,  into  those  days  which  were 
to  mean  so  much  to  me.  Had  I  had  the  pride, 
the  devotion  to  my  religion  which  is  a  Jewish 
heritage,  those  days  would  have  meant  less.  Less 
in  sorrow  and  bewilderment,  that  is,  and  in- 
finitely more  in  the  building  up  of  my  character. 

There  are  those  who  go  stolidly,  brusquely 
through  life  without  ever  needing  the  comfort 
of  religion.  And  there  are  those,  like  me,  who 
lack  the  self-reliance  .  .  .  who  cannot  be 
content  with  a  confessed  agnosticism,  but  who 
must  take  faith  and  strength  from  those  rites  and 
codes  which  satisfy  their  sense  of  the  mystically 
sublime.  Now  that  I  am  grown  to  man's  estate 


10     THE  SEVEN-BRANCHED  CANDLESTICK 

I  can  know  these  things  of  myself — but  how 
could  I  know  it  then?  How  could  a  romping, 
light-hearted  boy  who  cared  more  for  baseball 
and  "Ivanhoe"  than  for  anything  else  in  the 
world  recognize,  then,  his  own  needs  and  crav- 
ings? 

It  was  only  after  those  few  black,  frightful 
days  were  over  that  I  realized  that  something 
was  lacking  in  my  life.  But  even  then  I  did 
not  know  what  it  was.  I  only  felt  the  sharply 
personal  loss,  the  inevitable  loneliness  and  help- 
lessness .  .  .  and  had  not  learned  in  what 
direction  to  lift  my  eyes,  to  reach  up  my  arms  to 
ask  for  spiritual  succor. 

Those  days  were  the  ones  in  which  my  parents 
left  me.  My  father  was  killed  in  a  railroad  ac- 
cident My  mother,  about  to  give  birth  to  another 
child,  was  in  bed  at  the  time  when  the  news  was 
brought  to  her.  She  never  rose  again.  The 
shock  killed  her. 

I  remember  that  the  funeral  services  were  con- 
ducted by  the  rabbi  of  our  synagogue.  They  were 
according  to  the  Jewish  ritual,  and  I  thought 
them  dull  and  unmeaning.  They  expressed  for 
me  none  of  the  sorrow  that  I  felt.  The  Hebrew 
that  was  in  them  was  mockery  and  gibberish  to 
me.  I  am  afraid  I  was  glad  when  it  was  over, 
and  I  was  alone  with  my  aunt  with  whom  I  was 
to  live. 


BY  WAY  OF  PROLOGUE  11 

This  aunt,  Selina  Haberman,  was  a  widow. 
Her  husband  had  been  a  devout  Jew  of  the  most 
orthodox  type.  She  used  to  tell  me  with  great 
amusement  how  he  would  say  his  prayers 
each  morning  with  his  shawl  and  phylacteries 
upon  him,  with  his  head  bowed  and  a  look  of 
joyous  devotion  on  his  face.  She  said  she  never 
could  understand  how  a  man,  as  educated  and 
broadminded  as  he  was,  could  have  had  so  sim- 
ple and  unquestioning  a  loyalty  to  these  worn 
old  costumes  of  the  past.  But  she  said  wist- 
fully that  she  thought  he  had  died  a  much  hap- 
pier man  because  of  his  religion  .  *  *  and 
that  was  what  was  hardest  of  all  for  her  to 
understand. 

Aunt  Selina  herself  was  a  Christian.  She 
put  as  little  stock  in  Christian  Science,  though, 
as  in  Judaism.  It  was  a  fad  for  her,  and  an 
escape  from  the  hindrances  which  connection 
with  the  Jewish  faith  would  have  entailed.  I 
think  she  had  an  idea  that  people  would  forget 
she  had  ever  been  a  Jewess  and  would  accept 
her  for  a  Christian  without  her  having  to  go 
through  the  extremer  forms  of  proselytism. 
Like  me,  she  lacked  spirit  for  either  one  thing 
or  the  other.  Like  me,  she  dreaded  to  be  classed 
among  her  own  people.  But  in  this  we  were 
unlike :  that  her  dread  amounted  to  a  vindictive 
and  brutal  antagonism  towards  whatever  and 


12     THE  SEVEN-BRANCHED  CANDLESTICK 

whoever  smacked  of  Jewry.  I  think  she  even 
objected  to  adopting  me  for  a  while,  because  my 
name  was  a  distinctly  Jewish  one,  and  because 
it  would  leave  no  doubt  in  her  neighbor's  eyes 
as  to  my  race — and  hence,  no  doubt  as  to  hers. 

Aunt  Selina  lived  on  Central  Park  West  in 
the  City.  She  was  full  of  social  ambitions.  She 
had  a  good  many  friends  from  among  the  in- 
tellectuals of  Washington  square:  Christians, 
of  course,  most  of  them.  Her  closest  companion 
was  a  Mrs.  Fleming-Cohen,  who  claimed  to  be 
a  Theosophist.  Born  with  the  name  of  Cohen, 
she  had  married  a  Mr.  Fleming  who  had  made 
necessary,  by  his  conduct,  an  early  divorce.  My 
aunt,  Mrs.  Haberman,  and  Mrs.  Fleming-Cohen 
lunched  together  very  often,  and  I  suspect  they 
had  a  tacit  but  inviolable  agreement  never  to 
mention  to  each  other  that  bond  of  race  and  re- 
ligion which,  stronger  than  their  professed  tastes, 
drew  them  instinctively  together. 

My  life  in  Aunt  Selina's  apartment  was  a 
lonely  one.  She  was  hardly  the  sort  of  woman  to 
whom  young  folks  would  go  for  sympathy.  She 
did  not  mistreat  me,  of  course,  but  left  me  en- 
tirely to  my  own  devious  ways.  For  the  ways 
of  a  boy  of  fourteen — especially  of  an  orphan 
of  somewhat  shy  and  melancholic  disposition — 
are  bound  to  be  devious. 

I  had  much  to  fight  out  with  myself.    I  lacked 


BY  WAY  OF  PROLOGUE  13 

any  help  from  the  outside — and  though  I  won 
over  my  impulses,  my  doubts  and  inner  con- 
flicts, the  struggle  left  me  a  weak,  shy,  shunning 
boy. 

For  the  first  year  of  my  life  with  Aunt  Selina 
I  went  to  a  nearby  public  school.  There  were 
a  good  many  Jewish  boys  in  my  class — many 
more  than  there  had  been  in  the  whole  Brooklyn 
school — but  I  kept  away  from  them  as  a  matter 
of  course.  I  made  a  few  friends  among  the  Gen- 
tiles— not  many,  because  they  were  hard  to  make, 
and  I  could  always  feel,  in  my  supersensitive 
fashion,  that  they  were  fashioning  a  sort  of  favor 
out  of  conferring  their  friendhsip  upon  me. 

"It  will  be  different  when  I  am  in  high  school," 
I  told  myself.  "It  will  be  different  because  I 
myself  shall  be  different.  The  boys  will  be  older 
there,  will  be  more  sensible  and  broad-minded, 
and  I  shall  be  less  nervous  about  the  difference 
between  us!" 

The  difference  .  .  .  I  did  not  know 
what  it  was,  but  I  felt  it  all  the  time.  I  tried 
to  hide  it,  to  disregard  it — but  I  knew  that  it 
was  there,  in  my  blood,  in  my  face,  in  my  name 
.  -  .  .  and  it  held  me  apart  from  my  class  as 
if  it  had  been  a  shame  and  a  lasting  disgrace. 

So  it  was  that  I  looked  forward  more  and 
more  eagerly  for  the  change  and  liberation  which 
I  thought  high  school  would  bring  me.  Half  a 


14     THE  SEVEN-BRANCHED  CANDLESTICK 

year,  two  months,  a  month  .  .  .  then  only 
a  few  days  .  .  .  and  then  it  was  over.  My 
public  schools  days  were  past.  I  had  graduated 
into  high  school  with  high  honors  and  with  an 
equally  high  hatred  of  whatever  was  Jewish. 

If  Aunt  Selina  had  been  different  .  .  . 
but  no,  I  am  not  going  to  blame  it  on  anyone 
excepting  myself. 

The  summer  after  I  graduated  from  public 
school  I  went  with  Aunt  Selina  and  her  friend, 
Mrs.  Fleming-Cohen,  to  a  hotel  in  the  White 
Mountains.  It  was  one  of  those  hotels  where 
Jews  are  not  welcome.  The  management,  if  I  am 
not  mistaken,  had  not  been  able  to  impress  Aunt 
Selina  with  that  fact.  They  were  constantly 
raising  the  price  of  our  rooms,  but  the  two 
ladies  seemed  content  to  keep  on  paying  what 
was  asked  for  the  rare  privilege  of  dwelling  in 
forbidden  places. 

It  was  certainly  not  a  pleasant  summer.  The 
other  guests  snubbed  us  continually,  left  us  to 
our  own  devices.  I  used  to  have  to  go  walking 
every  morning  and  sit  on  the  porch  every  after- 
noon in  the  company  of  the  two  ladies  .  .  . 
because  there  was  no  one  else  for  me  to  go  with. 
For  even  among  the  children  there  was  a  rigor- 
ous boycotting — and  I  was  the  sufferer  for  it. 
It  made  me  very  melancholy;  not  indignant, 
of  course,  because  at  that  time  I  lacked  entirely 


BY  WAY  OF  PROLOGUE  15 

the  spirit  to  be  indignant — just  melancholy,  and 
hateful  to  myself,  spiteful  to  my  aunt,  ashamed 
of  the  things  I  should  have  gloried  in,  hating 
the  things  I  should  have  worshiped. 

Well,  I  told  myself,  it  would  all  be  different 
in  the  fall:  it  would  all  be  different  when  I 
was  at  high  school.  For  then  I  was  to  begin 
those  seven  years  which  were  to  be  my  real  edu- 
cation. So  far  it  had  been  naught  but  child- 
hood's prologue.  And  what  a  shabby  little  part  I 
had  played  in  it! 

But  I  did  not  know  that,  then! 


n 

IN  THE  BEGINNING 

IMMEDIATELY  upon  our  return  from  the  moun- 
tains I  entered  high  school.  My  aunt  did  her 
duty  by  accompanying  me  to  the  office  of  the 
principal  and  assuring  him  that  I  was  an  honest 
and  upright  boy,  aged  fourteen. 

It  had  been  her  ambition  to  have  me  attend 
one  of  the  fashionable  boarding  schools  in  Con- 
necticut. I  do  not  think  she  had  me  much  in 
mind  when  she  made  the  attempt  to  enroll  me  at 
the  St.  Gregory  Episcopalian  Institute.  She  told 
so  many  of  her  friends  of  this  intention — and 
told  them  it  with  such  an  evident  pride — that  I 
fear  she  was  more  concerned  with  her  own  social 
prestige  than  with  my  education.  And  when 
St.  Gregory,  through  a  personal  visit  from  its 
headmaster,  discovered  that  Mrs.  Haberman  had 
no  right  to  aspire  to  the  exquisite  preference 
which  God  accords  Episcopalians,  and  later 
sent  us  a  polite  but  cursory  letter  of  regret  that 
its  roster's  capacity  was  full  for  the  year,  she 
bore  it  as  a  direct  insult  upon  her  ancestors. 
(Though,  of  course,  even  so  sharp  a  hurt  to  her 

16 


IN  THE  BEGINNING  17 

pride  would  not  let  her  admit  openly  that  all  of 
those  ancestors  were  Jews.) 

At  any  rate,  I  went  to  the  high  school  as  a  sort 
of  a  last  resort.  My  aunt  dreaded  the  company 
I  might  have  to  keep  there — all  the  public  riff- 
raff, she  called  it.  That  was  really  why  she  ac- 
companied me,  that  first  day,  to  assure  herself 
that  I  was  going  to  be  placed  among  a  "perfectly 
horrid  set  of  rude  ruffians — ghetto  boys,  and  the 
like!"  and  to  have  something  tangible  and  def- 
inite to  worry  about  during  the  next  few  years. 

The  principal,  busy  with  the  hundred  details 
of  school's  opening,  gave  us  as  much  time  and 
courtesy  as  he  could  afford.  As  I  look  back  upon 
it,  I  think  he  was  remarkably  patient  with  my 
aunt. 

She  told  him  her  fears  in  a  fretful,  supercilious 
way;  it  was  in  exactly  the  same  tone  that  she 
ordered  things  from  the  butcher  and  grocer  each 
morning  over  the  telephone.  The  principal 
heard  her  through — in  fact,  prompted  her  when- 
ever she  faltered,  nodded  appreciatively  when 
something  she  said  was  most  flagrantly  out  of 
place.  When  she  was  finished,  he  turned  to 
look  very  steadily  at  me. 

"If  you  have  such  objections  to  the  class  of 
boys  in  a  public  high  school,  why  do  you  send 
your  nephew  here?"  he  asked. 

"Because  it — it  is  convenient,"  she  stammered. 


18  THE  SEVEN-BRANCHED  CANDLESTICK 

"I  must  confess,  I  wanted  him  to  go  to  a  board- 
ing-school." 

"Which  one?" 

"St.  Gregory  Episcopalian  Institute." 

The  principal's  mouth  quivered  with  the  smile 
he  could  hardly  suppress : 

"Episcopalian?    The  boy  is  a  Jew,  is  he  not?" 

Mrs.  Haberman  sat  up  very  straight.  "His 
parents  had  Jewish  affiliations,  I  believe.  They 
are  both  dead." 

"I  see."  And  I  am  sure  he  really  did  see !  For 
a  moment  later  he  put  a  deft  end  to  the  inter- 
view. 

"Madam,"  he  said,  "this  boy  must  take  his 
chances  like  any  other  boy  in  the  school.  He 
must  make  his  own  friends  from  among  his  own 
sort.  He  must  fight  his  own  adversaries  among 
those  who  are  unlike  him.  That  is  the  law  of  life 
as  well  as  of  every  school.  If  he  is  attracted  to 
the  undesirable  element,  he  would  find  it  and 
mingle  with  it  at  St.  Gregory's  as  quickly  as  he 
would  here.  I  have  a  fine  lot  of  youths  here.  I  am 
proud  of  them — even  of  those  who  fail  to  come 
up  to  the  standards.  I  won't  try  to  talk  to  you 
about  the  splendid  spirit  of  democracy — because 
you  evidently  don't  want  the  boy  to  be  demo- 
cratic. You  don't  want  him  to  stand  on  his  own 
merits  as  a  Jew.  If  he  did  that,  he  would  be 
putting  up  an  honest,  spirited  battle.  I  only 


IN  THE  BEGINNING  19 

know  that  all  men  and  all  boys  like  an  honest 
stand  and  a  fair  fight  for  the  things  worth  pro- 
tecting. I  know  that  if  I  were  a  Jew,  I  should 
never — well,  that's  your  business,  not  mine."  He 
took  out  of  his  desk  a  little  leather-covered  book. 
"It  may  interest  you  to  know  that  this  high 
school  is  ranked  very  high  scholastically."  He 
turned  the  pages.  "Also  that  the  St.  Gregory 
Institution  is  ranked  among  the  most  unsuccess- 
ful schools  in  the  country  in  the  matter  of 
scholarship."  He  showed  her  a  table  of  figures, 
then  closed  the  book  and  put  it  away,  smiling. 
"Also,"  he  finished,  "that  I  am  an  Episcopalian, 
and  that  I  should  rather  send  a  son  or  a  nephew 
of  mine  to  prison  than  to  so  harmful  a  place  as 
St.  Gregory." 

His  remarks  did  not  altogether  convince  my 
aunt,  of  course;  and  he  said  no  more,  except  to 
assure  her  that  he  would  follow  my  course  in 
his  school  with  much  interest,  and  would  do  all 
in  his  power  to  make  me  manly.  To  Mrs.  Haber- 
man,  the  promise  to  make  a  man  of  me  meant 
little. 

She  left  me  at  the  school  door,  stepping  gin- 
gerly across  the  pavement  into  her  limousine  in 
order  to  escape  the  contamination  of  a  group  of 
young  Italians  who  were  coming  up  the  steps. 
As  she  slammed  the  machine  door  and  was  driven 
away,  I  felt  somewhat  bewildered — very  much 


20  THE  SEVEN-BRANCHED  CANDLESTICK 

alone  in  a  hallway  of  hundreds  of  boys  whom  I 
did  not  know,  but  who  jostled  me,  went  by  me,  up 
and  down  the  stairs  with  a  great  hollow  stamping 
of  feet,  an  echoing  laughter,  a  loud  excitement  of 
regathering  after  the  summer's  recess.  None  of 
them  paid  the  slightest  attention  to  me. 

A  deep-voiced  gong  sounded  through  the  hall 
and  up  the  wide  stair-well.  It  was  the  signal 
to  disperse  to  our  classrooms. 

I  had  a  card  in  my  hand,  assigning  me  to  room 
7  on  the  third  floor.  I  climbed  the  stairs  fear- 
fully, my  heart .  beating  faster  than  usual,  my 
knees  trembling  a  little.  I  was  entering  a  strange 
and  mystic  land  that  I  had  dreamed  of,  yet  had 
never  seen. 

Koom  7,  third  floor.  It  was  a  big,  bare  room, 
void  of  almost  everything  excepting  sunshine. 
There  were  desks,  low  and  set  decently  apart 
Along  the  wall,  behind  gleaming  glass,  were  cases 
of  seashells  and'  botanical  specimens.  The 
teacher's  desk,  at  the  further  end,  was  on  a 
small,  shabby  dais.  Only  a  few  of  the  boys  had 
arrived,  and  the  big  room  rang  with  the  echo 
of  unfilled  space. 

I  heard  them  telling  each  other  what  they  had 
been  doing  over  the  summer.  One  of  them, 
brown  and  sturdy,  was  telling  of  Maine  and  the 
camp  he  had  attended  there.  Another,  in  ragged 
clothes,  and  of  a  thin,  pale  face,  spoke  of  the 


IN  THE  BEGINNING  21 

heated  city  during  July  and  August,  and  of  how 
he  had  been  swimming  when  he  could  get  away 
from  his  summer  job — swimming  in  the  East 
Jiivcr.  It  shocked  me  to  hear  that.  I  had  a 
picture  of  the  East  Eiver  as  I  had  seen  it  from 
the  Brooklyn  Bridge,  a  brown,  littered  flood, 
choked  with  scurrying  tugboats  and  the  float- 
ing trnils  of  refuse.  I  hated  that  boy  for  a  long 
while  after  I  heard  his  story.  But  he  had  a 
sharp,  kindly  face,  and  I  wondered  to  see  how 
popular  he  was  with  those  who  knew  him. 

Coning,  as  I  did,  from  a  distant  grammar 
school,  it  chanced  that  there  were  no  boys  of  my 
acquaintance  in  the  classroom.  I  was  absolutely 
alone — a  stranger  to  them  all. 

The  teacher,  on  his  dais,  tapped  with  thin, 
vhite  knuckles  against  the  side  of  his  desk.  He 
was  a  little,  timid  man  with  one  of  the  saddest 
faces  I  have  ever  seen.  Mr.  Levi,  he  said  his 
name  was. 

The  boy  next  to  me  stirred  in  his  seat.  "A 
Jew  for  a  teacher !  What  do  you  think  of  that !" 
he  said  to  me.  "A  Jew  for — "  Then  he  stopped 
short  and  looked  at  me.  "Oh,  gee!  You're  one 
yourself,  ain't  you?" 

I  felt  my  face  grow  very  hot.  I  thought  of 
the  words  which  the  principal  had  only  just 
spoken.  .  .  .  Could  I  stand  up  and  fight 
like  a  man? 


22  THE  SEVEN-BRANCHED  CANDLESTICK 

I  wanted  to — I  really  do  believe  that  I  wanted 
to.  But  somehow  the  impulse  that  came  to  me 
to  face  this  seatmate  squarely  and  to  tell  him 
that — yes,  I  was  a  Jew,  too — and  proud  of  it — 
dwindled  away  into  a  gulp  and  a  whimper  and  a 
Bickly  smile. 

This  other  boy  was  red-headed,  freckled.  He 
was  very  tall,  but  I  saw  a  crutch  at  his  side. 
Later  on,  when  he  rose,  I  could  see  that  he  was 
very  lame;  also  that  around  his  neck  (for  he 
wore  no  collar)  was  a  little  leather  thong  and 
tab.  I  did  not  know  then — and  I  did  not  learn 
for  many  months — that  it  was  the  scapular  of 
a  Roman  Catholic. 

He  looked  at  me  surlily,  but  laughing. 

"You  are  a  Jew,  aint  you?"  he  demanded. 

I  hung  my  head,  wondering  how  to  evade  the 
directness  of  the  question.  The  lame  boy  seemed 
to  be  waiting  for  my  reply. 

"Well,  no — not  exactly."  I  stuttered.  But 
I  could  feel  my  face  flushing  again. 

"What  d'yer  mean,  not  exactly?  What's  yer 
mom  and  pop?" 

"My  mother  and  father?    They  are  dead." 

That  did  not  seem  to  check  him.  "Well,  if  you 
ain't  a  Jew,  you  look  like  one.  You  look  more 
like  one  than  the  teacher  does."  Whereupon, 
much  to  my  relief,  he  branched  off  the  subject. 
"He  don't  seem  to  be  such  a  bad  fellow,  even 


IN  THE  BEGINNING  23 

with  a  name  like  Levi.  Oi,  oi,  oi,  Levi!"  And 
he  chuckled  with  delight  at  the  thought  of  how 
he  would  annoy  and  tease  this  teacher  at  some 
future  date. 

There  are  some  boys  of  whom  we  can  know 
at  a  glance  that  they  are  bullies  and  mischief 
makers.  This  boy,  whose  name  was  Geoghen, 
was  one  of  them.  He  used  his  very  lameness 
as  an  excuse  to  boss  and  bully  his  classmates. 
He  was  very  strong,  though  as  I  was  to  learn 
only  too  soon — and  his  size  made  him  an  undis- 
puted leader. 

There  w^ere  no  lessons  this  first  day.  There 
were  only  a  speech  of  welcome  from  the  teacher, 
and  an  assignment  of  home  work  for  the  next 
morning. 

But  when  we  were  dismissed  and  had  started 
for  the  door,  Geoghen  limped  up  to  me. 

"So  you  ain't  a  Jew,  eh?"  he  chuckled,  look- 
ing hard  into  my  face. 

So  as  to  avoid  the  retort^  I  fled  from  him, 
down  the  stairs  into  the  main  hall.  I  was  just 
about  to  gain  the  street  when  the  principal, 
coming  out  of  his  office,  saw  me, 

"What's  this?"  he  said  in  his  deep  likable 
voice.  "Kunning  away  so  soon?" 

"Yes,  sir.    We're  dismissed  for  today." 

"Oh,  I  see.  Well,  I  suppose  you've  already 
begun  to  fight  like  a  man,  haven't  you?  I  hope 
so." 


24  THE  SEVEN-BRANCHED  CANDLESTICK 

"Oh,  yes,  sir!" 

But,  as  I  went^  I  knew  in  my  heart  that  it 
was  not  true.  The  whole  first  day  had  been 
false. 


Ill 

FRIDAY  NIGHT 

THOSE  first  days  at  high  school  seemed  terri- 
ble in  the  intensity  of  new  experiences.  Had 
T  but  had  my  parents  to  encourage  me,  perhaps 
I  should  not  have  felt  so  bitterly  the  loneliness 
of  this  new  turn  in  the  road. 

I  do  not  care  how  manly  and  resolute  he  is, 
a  boy  will  always  need  the  kind  words,  the  clasp 
and  kiss  which  only  his  parents  can  give  him. 
And  I  was  not  half  so  resolute  then,  nor  half 
so  hardened  to  battle  as  I  am  now. 

I  worried  a  good  deal  about  my  standing  in 
the  class  room.  It  seemed  to  me  that  I  could 
not  possibly  pass  each  day's  recitations  credit- 
ably. And  yet  I  did,  as  I  remember.  It  was 
only  that  I  so  sorely  lacked  self-confidence. 

My  aunt,  Mrs.  Haberman,  did  her  duty  in 
taking  me  to  a  nerve  specialist.  He  charged 
her  a  pretty  price  to  examine  me  and  to  assure 
her  that,  physically,  there  was  nothing  wrong 
with  me. 

"Mentally,  he  is  a  little  too  active,"  was  his 
sentence  upon  me.  "And  that  is  what  makes 

25 


26  THE  SEVEN-BRANCHED  CANDLESTICK 

him  melancholy.  Let  him  study,  let  him  get  out 
and  meet  boys  of  his  own  age.  .  .  .  Let  him 
find  something  to  be  proud  of,  to  be  interested 
in." 

My  aunt  gave  this  last  a  few  pettish,  impatient 
moments  of  thought.  After  the  doctor  was 
gone,  and  she  and  I  sat  opposite  each  other  at 
the  table,  where  the  glass  and  silver  made  so 
ostentatious  a  showing,  she  did  her  best  to  be 
practical  about  it. 

"Now,  dear,  let's  see,"  she  pondered,  her  long 
white  fingers  stroking  the  table  cloth,  "I'm  sure 
we  can  find  something  to  interest  and  amuse 
you,  dear.  How  about  basket  weaving?  or  color- 
ing photographs  or  something  artistic  like 
that?" 

I  wasn't  very  polite  in  my  refusals.  I  de- 
clined basket  weaving  and  coloring  photographs 
and  even  balked  at  the  idea  of  installing  a  bil- 
liard table  in  our  apartment — which  seemed  to 
relieve  Mrs.  Haberman  immensely,  since  she 
considered  billiards  a  brutal  and  vulgar  game. 

All  her  suggestions  came  to  naught.  Once  she 
spoke  of  religion,  but  her  eyes  fluttered  and  she 
changed  the  subject  quickly,  as  if  she  had  ac- 
cidently  hit  upon  the  truth  and  found  it  un- 
pleasant. It  was  enough  to  put  an  idea  into 
my  head. 

I  did  not  know  then,  but  I  do  now,  that  the 


FRIDAY  NIGHT  27 

thing  I  needed  was  Faith.  A  boy  needs  it — 
needs  it  as  much  as  he  needs  his  parents — and 
I  had  neither  one  nor  the  other. 

The  days  retreating  into  a  gloomy  background 
of  autumn  chills  and  fogs,  left  me  thoroughly 
weakened  in  spirit.  Oftentimes — I  could  not 
guess  why — I  came  home  from  high  school  so 
exhausted  that  I  could  only  throw  myself  upon 
my  bed,  behind  a  locked  door,  and  sob  and 
sigh  and  shiver  as  if  with  the  ague.  Everything 
that  had  happened  during  the  day  would  come 
pouring  back  into  my  memory  with  a  distorted 
clarity,  tinctured  with  despair,  hopelessly  som- 
bred  with  a  boy's  sense  of  wrong  and  perse- 
cution. 

I  did  actually  have  enough  to  contend  with 
at  high  school.  I  had  begun  to  feel  the  racial 
distinctions,  the  thoughtless  slurs  and  boycot- 
tings  which  Jewish  lads  must  everywhere  en- 
counter. I  tried  to  tell  myself  that  it  didn't 
matter — that  these  were  only  rough,  ill-bred  boys 
to  whom  I  ought  not  lower  myself  to  pay  at- 
tention. But  a  boy  of  fourteen  finds  it  hard 
to  argue  himself  into  bravery,  and  I  failed  mis- 
erably, ridiculously  at  the  task.  Years  later, 
T  was  to  learn  that  it  was  all  natural — that  T 
was  passing,  as  every  boy  must  pass,  through  the 
difficult  period  of  adolescence.  It  was  mostly 
that  I  was  lonely,  balked  by  the  unappreciative 


28  THE  SEVEN-BRANCHED  CANDLESTICK 

attitude  of  my  aunt,  without  guidance  or  curb. 

If  in  all  this  personal  recital  I  am  harsh  to 
the  memory  of  my  aunt,  you  will  perhaps  see 
that  I  have  the  right.  I  am  grateful,  truly 
grateful,  for  all  that  she  attempted  to  do  for 
me,  but  I  know  that  all  her  care  was  misdirected. 
It  was,  besides,  cruelly  lacking  in  all  of  the 
finer  things  which  should  have  been  mine ;  things 
which  my  parents  would  have  given  me,  things 
that,  in  my  aggravated  state,  I  needed. 

Once  I  was  asked  by  some  other  Jewish  boys 
at  high  school  to  join  a  little  club  which  they 
were  forming.  I  hesitated  about  it.  They  were 
jolly,  healthy  boys — most  of  them  from  the 
poorer  sections  of  the  city — who  went  up  to  Van 
Cortlandt  Park  on  Saturday  afternoons  and  Sun- 
days to  play  ball  or  to  skate.  It  would  have  done 
me  good  to  be  one  of  them,  to  join  their  spo>rts 
and  laughter — and  yet.  .  .  . 

Well,  my  aunt  did  not  approve.  I  knew  she 
wouldn't,  long  before  I  asked  her.  If  I  was  the 
least  bit  undecided  before,  she  gave  me  clearly 
to  understand  that  companionship  with  Jewish 
boys  would  not  be  right  for  me;  that  I  must 
avoid  this  stigma  of  Judaism  as  I  would  avoid 
a  crime.  She  said  it  was  for  my  own  good — but 
I  cannot  believe  it  very  heartily.  She  was  try- 
ing at  that  time  to  make  me  join  a  dancing  class 
of  Gentile  boys  and  girls.  She  told  me  she 


FRIDAY  NIGHT  29 

thought  their  company  would  counteract  the 
effect  of  having  to  endure  a  high  school's  rab- 
ble. 

There  came  a  night,  after  a  day  of  niggardly 
discouragements,  when  the  strange  moroseness 
seemed  too  heavy  to  bear.  I  told  my  aunt  that 
I  did  not  want  any  supper — a  fact  which  did 
not  worry  her  too  much,  since  she  was  in  a 
hurry  to  dress  and  go  off  to  a  studio  party  of 
some  silly  sort.  And  when  she  was  gone  and 
I  was  alone  in  the  apartment,  I  could  not  read 
or  rest  or  do  anything.  I  tried  to  study  my 
next  day's  lessons,  but  had  to  give  them  up. 

And  at  last  I  put  on  my  hat  and  coat  and 
went  down  to  the  street.  The  air  was  bracing, 
but  I  was  not  used  to  the  streets  at  night — and 
a  white,  wraith-like  fog  was  beginning  to  seep 
up  from  the  pavements  and  cluster  in  misty, 
yellow  patches  around  the  lamp-lights. 

Shivering,  I  went  on.  I  did  not  know  where 
I  was  bound.  The  old,  savage  loneliness — here 
in  the  open,  where  the  dampness  brought  the 
scent  of  withered  grass  and  lean,  bare  trees — 
was  sharper,  more  embittering  than  ever. 

I  went  across  the  street  and  into  the  nearest 
entrance  of  Central  Park.  The  quietness  of  every- 
thing thi?re  frightened  me,  called  up  every  fool- 
ish, childhood  fear  and  superstition.  I  went 
through  dark  lanes  that  were  branched  over 


30  THE  SEVEN-BRANCHED  CANDLESTICK 

with  creaking  branches.  I  saw  the  lake,  black, 
cold,  with  the  stippled  reflections  of  shore  lights 
shining  up  from  its  edges.  I  felt  the  moist, 
chilly  wind  that  came  across  the  big  lawns  and 
struck  my  face  and  chest  and  shoulders.  I  felt — 
I  could  not  help  but  feel  that  I  must  go  on,  go 
on  and  on — in  search  of  I  know  not  what. 

I  came  at  length  to  the  Fifth  Avenue  side  of 
the  park.  The  huge  white  stone  and  marble 
houses  that  flanked  the  street  beyond  were  half 
lost  in  the  mist.  The  automobiles  that  went  up 
and  down  the  pavements,  which  were  wet  and 
shining  like  the  backs  of  seals,  made  no  noise — 
went  silently,  mystically,  sweeping  blurred 
trails  of  light  upon  the  sidewalks  as  they  passed. 

Against  that  white,  low  horizon  of  houses  I 
saw  one  thing  that  loomed  dark  and  gropingly 
conspicuous. 

I  did  not  know  what  it  was.  Not  then.  But 
it  held  my  attention:  the  darkness,  the  gray 
curve  of  it  against  the  sky.  There  was  some- 
thing about  it  that  was  forbidding,  deep,  sombre. 
The  lower  front  of  it  seemed  to  be  arched  and 
pillared — and  under  each  arch  the  shadows  were 
impenetrably  black. 

There  were  automobiles  waiting  in  front  of 
it,  at  the  sidewalk's  edge.  A  long  string  of 
them,  too,  as  if  many  persons  were  within  up- 
on some  mysterious  business. 


FRIDAY  NIGHT  31 

Then,  softly,  as  if  from  far  distant  recesses, 
there  came  from  within  the  soft,  resonant  voice 
of  an  organ — playing. 

Was  it  a  church? 

Then  I  remembered  that  is  was  Friday  night — 
and  I  knew  that  this  was  a  synagogue — a 
temple  of  the  Jewish  Faith. 

At  first  realization,  I  moved  a  little  away  from 
it,  down  the  street.  A  synagogue — and  all 
that  it  brought  to  my  mind  was  the  memory  of 
my  parents.  In  former  years  they  had  been 
wont  to  take  me  with  them  when  they  went  on 
Friday  nights.  And  those  had  been  dull,  weari- 
some nights  for  me — but  I  had  spent  them  at 
my  parent's  side.  So  that  now,  in  the  shadow 
of  God's  house,  my  loneliness  for  them  came 
back  to  me  in  wild  deluge,  breaking  the  dam 
of  reserve  and  doubts  and  petty  limitations. 

The  music  of  the  organ  swelled  louder,  richer, 
blending  all  the  majesty  of  its  bass  notes  with 
the  triumph  and  fancy  of  its  treble.  Louder, 
richer,  louder — and  I,  who  stood  outside  in  the 
choking  fog,  felt  my  heart  give  way  to  its  pain 
and  my  eyes  to  the  solace  of  their  tears. 

Until  the  service  was  ended,  and  the  organ 
had  ceased  to  play  I  stayed  there.  Once  or  twice 
1  heard  the  voice  of  the  cantor  at  his  solemn 
chantings — and  this  too  brought  me  a  distinct 
memory  of  the  cantor  in  our  Brooklyn  syna- 


32  THE  SEVEN-BRANCHED  CANDLESTICK 

gogue,  and  of  how  I  had  listened  to  him  with 
my  hands  locked  in  my  mother's. 

Outside  it  was  all  so  dark,  so  clammy  with 
nrist — and  in  there  they — my  own  sort  of  peo- 
ple— were  worshipping  God — my  God.  And 
when,  soon  thereafter,  the  doors  swung  open  in 
the  black  of  the  arches  and  bathed  the  steps 
below  with  a  great,  glad,  golden  light,  I  ran 
forward,  almost  involuntarily,  to  gaze  within. 

I  caught  a  glimpse  of  rich  things,  bright  and 
gleaming — of  carpets  glowing,  walls  resplend- 
ent— of  golden  tracery  and  colors.  And  then 
people  began  coming  through  the  doors  down 
the  steps,  blackening  and  obscuring  my  view  of 
the  interior. 

I  saw  some  of  their  faces.  They  were  Jewish 
people,  of  course — and  I  heard  a  man  among 
them  talking  rather  loudly  and  laughingly.  He 
talked  with  an  accent. 

For  me  the  spell  was  broken.  All  the  old, 
petty  prejudice  which  circumstance  had  nurtured 
in  me  sprang  up  anew.  A  sense  of  anti-climax, 
of  disgust  came  over  me:  yes,  these — such  as 
these  were  my  people — and  I  hated  them. 

And  I  turned  and  ran  away,  back  through 
the  park,  and  home. 

I  did  not  ever  tell  my  aunt  where  I  had  been, 
nor  anything  else  of  the  adventure.  I  knew 
she  would  not  have  understood  it. 


FRIDAY  NIGHT  83 

But  I  did.  And,  boy  as  I  was,  I  knew  now 
that  I  needed  some  Faith,  some  link  to  the  com- 
pany and  comfort  of  God — and  that,  sooner  or 
later,  as  Jew  or  Christian,  I  must  seek  and  find 
that  link. 

But  I  knew,  too,  that  my  antipathy  to  my 
own  people  had  become  deep-seated — had  grown 
to  be  part  of  my  whole  life's  code. 


IV 
THE  BOY  AND  THE  SCHOOL 

HIGH  school's  terrors  developed  for  me  into 
a  more  personal  terror  of  that  young  tough, 
Jim  Geoghen.  A  thorough  bully,  he  made 
me  feel  always  that  he  was  aware  of  my 
religion,  that  he  could  at  any  moment  disclose 
it  to  the  rest  of  my  classmates  and  make  me  the 
subject  of  their  taunts.  No  doubt,  they  all  knew 
as  well  as  he  that  I  was  a  Jew — but,  for  the 
most  part,  they  paid  little  attention  to  that  fact. 
A  large  number  of  them  were  Jews  themselves : 
bright-eyed,  poorly-dressed  little  fellows  who  led 
the  class  in  studies,  but  wLo  mingled  little  with 
any  other  element. 

Something  stronger  than  myself  made  me  take 
np  a  half-hearted  companionship  with  these  Jew- 
ish boys.  I  did  not  want  to:  I  dreaded  being 
one  of  them — and  yet,  for  all  my  aunt's  sneers 
and  warnings,  and  my  own  perverted  pride,  I 
always  felt  more  comfortable  with  them — more 
as  if,  in  walking  home  with  one  of  them  after 
school,  instead  of  with  some  Christian  boy,  T 
was  where  I  belonged.  I  know  it  was  only 

34 


THE  BOY  AND  THE  SCHOOL  35 

self-consciousness  that  gave  me  this  feeling— 
but  after  all,  comfort  must  play  a  big  part  in 
our  companionships. 

Geoghen,  with  his  towering,  menacing  form, 
his  dull,  animars  face,  his  swinging  crutch,  his 
mysterious  scapular,  haunted  me  continuously. 
I  remember  distinctly  dreaming  of  him  once  or 
twice  at  night — and  that  he  stood  over  my 
bedside,  in  those  dreams,  with  his  crutch  up- 
raised to  strike,  and  his  little  leather  scapular 
writhing  and  hissing  like  a  coiled  snake. 

One  day  he  did  strike  me.  It  was  during 
the  noon  recess  when  a  group  of  us  were  in 
the  asphalted  yard,  eating  our  lunches.  Mine  was 
always  an  elaborate  package  of  dainties,  wrap- 
ped in  much  tissue  paper  and  doilies.  Geoghen, 
on  the  other  hand,  had  just  a  chunk  of  rye 
bread,  covered  over  with  a  slice  of  ham.  His 
glance,  long  and  greedy,  betrayed  how  envious 
of  me  he  was. 

"Eat  ham?"  he  asked  with  a  snicker. 

He  did  not  wait  for  an  answer,  but  crammed 
a  few  shreds  of  it  towards  my  mouth,  his  dirty 
fingers  striking  my  teeth.  I  jumped  away  from 
him  and  he  followed  after  me,  hobbling  with 
amazing  swiftness. 

"Tried  to  bite  me,  eh?"  he  cried. 

I  denied  it — but  he  did  not  listen  and,  raising 
his  crutch,  dealt  me  a  stinging  blow  with  the 


36  THE  SEVEN-BRANCHED  CANDLESTICK 

smaller  end  of  it — though,  at  that,  I  was  let  off 
easy. 

Towards  our  teacher,  Mr.  Levi,  Geoghen  and 
some  of  the  other  boys  acted  with  all  the  pent-up 
meanness  and  savagery  of  mischievous  youth. 
Mr.  Levi's  manner  invited  the  twitting,  perhaps : 
his  pale,  thin  face  bore  always  a  nettled  look,  his 
eyes  seemed  ever  hungry  with  some  dark  sorrow, 
and  his  mouth  was  always  twitching.  There  was 
a  fine  timidity  about  his  way  of  handling  us.  He 
did  not  seem  to  be  able  to  scold  or  be  authorita- 
tive. 

But  when  he  would  be  teaching  us  our  Roman 
History,  for  instance,  and  would  tell  us  of  the 
beauties  of  Italian  scenery  or  of  Caesar's  cen- 
turions lost  in  the  dark,  tangled  German  forests 
or  of  how  Cleopatra  came  with  purple  sails — 
or  of  how  Cleopatra  came  to  meet  Mark  Antony 
in  a  golden  barge  with  purple  sails — then  his 
face  would  light  up  with  a  look  that  was 
glorious,  and  even  the  rattiest,  coarsest  of  us 
would  thrill  and  be  hushed  with  the  thrill — 
and  know,  no  matter  how  dimly,  that  he  was 
in  the  presence  of  a  great  and  beautiful  spirit. 

But  those  times  were  rare;  and,  as  a  rule,  we 
made  life  miserable  for  Mr.  Levi.  He  seemed 
to  feel,  I  am  sure,  the  handicap  of  his  religion — 
to  know  that  the  Irish  boys  of  the  class,  and 
dark,  sullen-faced  Italians,  were  thinking  it  an 


THE  BOY  AND  THE  SCHOOL  37 

insult  to  be  taught  by  a  Jew — and  that  they 
were  only  waiting  for  the  opportunity  for  an 
outburst. 

It  came  at  the  end  of  my  year  in  high  school. 
That  last  month  is  always  a  rebellious  one.  The 
spring  weather,  the  sense  of  approaching  vaca- 
tion make  gamins  of  the  quietest  of  us. 

Mr.  Levi  had  been  absent  from  the  room  for 
a  little  while.  Geoghen  in  that  time  had  left 
his  seat,  hobbled  up  to  the  dais  and  opened  the 
teacher's  desk.  This  bit  of  boldness  drew  a 
crowd  of  laughing  boys  to  the  front  of  the  room. 
They  rummaged  the  desk,  overturning  and  scat- 
tering its  papers,  tumbling  books  to  the  floor. 

Suddenly  one  of  them  stooped  and  picked  up 
a  book  which  lay  sprawled  with  its  pages  open. 
There  was  an  immediate  shouting,  coarse  and 
repellent  to  hear. 

The  book  of  Mr.  Levi's  which  they  had  found, 
was  a  Hebrew  prayer  book. 

Geoghen  took  it  from  the  other  boy.  He  held 
it  open  and  up  close  to  his  leering  face.  Then 
slowly,  with  the  others  in  his  trail,  he  began  to 
march  around  the  room,  making  believe  to  sing 
a  heathenish  jargon  which  he  must  have  thought 
to  resemble  Hebrew,  twisting  his  face  gro- 
tesquely to  seem  like  a  Jew's,  making  lewd  ges- 
tures— breaking  off  now  and  again  to  shriek 
with  laughter  at  the  comicality  of  it  all. 


38  THE  SEVEN-BRANCHED  CANDLESTICK 

Then  suddenly  Mr.  Levi  returned. 

He  charged  into  the  line,  spun  Geoghen  about 
and  tore  the  book  from  his  hands.  Geoghen 
reached  for  it,  as  if  loath  to  let  go  of  so  much 
fun — his  face  impudent,  grossly  humorous — and 
Mr.  Levi  knocked  him  down. 

I  shall  never  forget  how  the  teacher  looked. 
His  pale  face,  paler  than  ever,  gleamed  as  if  it 
were  cut  smooth  out  of  marble.  The  eyes  flashed 
with  a  noble  fury.  The  mouth  had  stopped  its 
twitching  and  was  drawn  taut,  and  his  teeth 
showed  at  the  corners  of  it.  And  when  he  struck 
at  Geoghen  his  whole  slender  tenseness  seemed 
to  be  thrown  into  the  blow. 

The  crippled  lad  lay  there  for  a  moment,  stun- 
ned. Then  he  got  unsteadily  to  his  feet  and 
picked  up  his  crutch.  A  stream  of  profanity  be- 
gan to  come  from  his  mouth.  I  don't  think  any  of 
us  had  ever  heard  such  talk  before.  All  the 
obscene  things  which  the  lowest  scum  of  human- 
ity can  pick  up  in  the  course  of  living  years  in 
the  gutter,  he  spat  out  at  Mr.  Levi. 

But  the  teacher  had  gone  back  to  his  dais  and 
desk  and  stood  facing  him  silently,  calmly,  a 
look  of  mild  reproach  taking  the  place  of  the 
anger  in  his  eyes.  He  let  Geoghen  have  his  mis- 
erable say.  and  then  silently  pointed  to/  the  door 
and  motioned  to  him  to  get  out.  And  Geoghen 
went. 


THE  BOY  AND  THE  SCHOOL  89 

That  wasn't  the  end  of  it,  though.  For,  with- 
in a  week  the  newspapers  had  taken  up  the  in- 
cident and  enlarged  it,  exaggerated  it — and 
Geoghen's  father  who,  it  seems,  was  a  political 
vassal  of  the  alderman  of  this  district,  had  man- 
aged to  have  Mr.  Levi  brought  before  the  Board 
of  Education  for  an  investigation. 

Mr.  Levi  had  no  show  in  that  trial.  He  told 
his  story  truthfully.  I  remember  that,  according 
to  the  newspapers,  he  made  scarcely  any  effort 
to  defend  himself.  He  merely  explained  that 
he  had  caught  this  boy  defiling  the  traditions  of 
the  Jewish  faith,  mocking  what  was  most  sacred 
to  him,  and  that  he  was  indeed  sorry  that, 
in  order  to  wrest  the  book  away  from  his  im- 
pure hands,  he  had  had  to  strike  and  knock 
down  a  crippled  pupil. 

The  newspapers  called  Mr.  Levi  a  dangerous 
and  cruel  fanatic,  the  Board  of  Education  de* 
cided  that  he  was  incompetent,  and  Mr.  Levi — 
his  face  paler  than  ever,  his  manner  more  mild 
and  saddened — announced  to  us  on  the  last 
day  of  school  that  he  would  not  be  with  us  in 
the  next  year. 

I  felt  somehow  that  I  would  have  liked  to  say 
goodby  to  him,  but  I  was  afraid  that  he  would 
ask  me  why  I,  in  his  absence  on  that  terrible 
day,  had  not  prevented  Geoghen  from  doing  what 
he  did — and  my  conscience  made  a  coward  of 


40  THE  SEVEN-BRANCHED  CANDLESTICK 

me.  I  had  a  foolish  idea,  besides,  that  he  did 
ii ot  like  me.  Any  man  who  cared  so  much  for 
his  religion  would  not  be  able  to  respect  a  boy 
in  my  position.  It  was  all  very  unfortunate — 
I  was  sorry  for  him,  to  be  sure — but  I  must 
not  sympathize  too  much  with  him. 

I  told  my  aunt  of  the  affair,  of  course,  and 
ehe  shuddered  with  distaste. 

"What  a  fearful  lot  of  ruffians  they  must 
be!"  she  sighed.  "And  worst  of  all,  a  Kussian 
Jew  for  a  teacher!" 

I  spent  the  summer  at  a  Y.  M.  O.  A.  camp 
on  the  Maine  coast.  There  were  no  other  Jew- 
ish boys  there,  but  my  aunt  had  managed  to 
have  me  placed  on  the  roll-call  somehow.  I  was 
glad  enough  of  it.  I  did  not  want  another  sum- 
mer at  a  fashionable  hotel  in  her  and  other  ladies' 
company. 

Of  course,  I  was  "Ike"  to  the  boys  of  the 
camp.  They  were  a  good,  rough-and-ready  sort 
who  swam  well,  ran,  tramped,  sang  rollicking 
songs  on  weekdays  and  hymns  on  Sundays,  grew 
brown  and  muscle-bound  and  manly.  Such  teas- 
ing as  I  had  from  them  was  good-natured, 
and  I  suppose  I  should  have  taken  it  in  the 
eame  spirit.  But  I  had  none  of  their  assurance, 
was  like  a  stranger  in  a  strange  land — and  came 
out  of  the  summer  with  a  still  deeper  shrinking 
from  contact  with  other  boys. 


THE  BOY  AND  THE  SCHOOL  41 

High  school  began  again,  went  on  and  on  from 
lagging  month  to  month,  and  soon  enough  was 
over  for  a  second  year.  But  this  time  my  aunt 
had  been  as  much  aroused  as  she  could  be  to 
the  baffling  condition  of  my  mind  and  spirits. 
I  had  by  no  means  lost  the  old  loneliness.  I 
had  learned  to  bear  it  with  greater  patience, 
but  it  still  galled  and  depressed  me. 

Only,  after  that  evening  when  I  stood  outside 
the  synagogue,  I  had  some  dim  conception  of 
what  the  inevitable  cure  would  have  to  be. 

At  any  rate,  my  aunt  called  in  the  nerve 
specialist  a  second  time.  He  insisted  that  I 
must  be  sent  away.  Perhaps  he  saw  into  the 
unsympathetic  quality  of  our  home  life. 

This  sent  my  aunt  into  tremors  of  delight. 
She  had  now  a  legitimate  excuse  for  shipping 
me  off  to  a  fashionable  boarding  school  of  some 
sort.  For  days  she  made  a  feverish  study  of 
monogrammed  and  photogravured  catalogues 
from  various  schools  in  the  East.  It  was  upon 
a  military  school  on  the  upper  Hudson  that  her 
choice  finally  fell.  And  I  am  sure  that  this 
was  due  to  the  expensive  appearance,  the  coat 
of  arms  and  Latin  motto  of  the  catalogue's  cover. 

What  ever  it  was,  her  choice  was  made.  She 
talked  a  good  deal  of  splendid  uniforms,  of  flags 
unfurled  to  the  sunset — and  fired  me  with  a 
lust  for  the  new  chapter  in  my  life. 


MY  introduction  to  military  school  was  hardly 
auspicious.  I  was  now  sixteen  years  old — nearly 
seventeen.  I  did  not  look  that  old,  however; 
the  commandant  of  the  school,  in  examining  me, 
took  me  for  much  less  and  assigned  me  to  a 
room  with  a  boy  of  twelve. 

At  seventeen,  our  age  is  a  most  important 
item.  We  think  so,  anyhow.  And  this  incident 
dampened  my  spirits  most  disproportionately. 
Especially  when  I  discovered  that  this  room- 
mate was  to  be  the  only  other  Jew  in  the  school. 
It  seemed  to  me  a  very  pointed  and  personal 
insult. 

He  was  a  meek  little  boy,  though — meeker 
even  than  I.  And  all  through  that  first  night 
he  wept  aloud,  smothering  his  tears  upon  his 
pillow  and  crying  for  his  mama — and  for  kar- 
toffel  salat.  It  was  a  Friday  night,  I  remember, 
and  it  must  have  been  a  Sabbath  custom  in  his 
house  to  have  potato  salad  for  supper. 
At  any  rate  he  kept  me  awake  long  into  the 
night. 

42 


THE  MILITARY   ACADEMY  43 

And  once,  taking  savage  pity  on  him,  I  got 
.up  and  went  over  to  him  in  my  bare  feet  and 
nightgown,  and  told  him  brusquely  how  satis- 
fied he  ought  to  be  to  have  a  mother  at  all ;  that 
both  my  father  and  mother  were  dead,  and  I 
should  never  see  them  again,  no  matter  how 
homesick  I  grew  or  how  long  I  waited  for  their 
coming.  This  silenced  him  on  that  score,  but 
he  went  on  whimpering  for  the  kartoffel  salat. 

The  next  day  I  screwed  up  my  courage  to 
complain  to  the  commandant.  He  was  a  very 
tall,  majestic  figure  of  a  soldier  who  had  fought 
through  the  Spanish  and  Boer  wars  and  now, 
in  times  of  peace,  was  reduced  to  teaching  the 
manual  of  arms  and  simple  drill  formations  to 
young  sons  of  the  rich.  He  was  the  most  pom- 
pous, mean  and  utterly  selfish  man  I  ever  met. 
One  could  see  it  on  his  handsome  face. 

He  heard  my  complaint  through.  Then,  be- 
cause, being  an  ignorant  "plebe,"  I  had  forgot- 
ten to  salute  him,  he  made  me  perform  that  act 
and  retell  the  whole  story  word  for  word.  But 
he  could  not  change  my  room  until  I  had  agreed 
to  take  a  cot  in  the  general  dormitory — this  be- 
ing reserved  for  students  who  paid  less  tuition. 

"You  may  write  your  aunt,"  he  said  stifly, 
twirling  his  long  mustaches,  "that  we  did  all 
we  could  to  make  you  comfortable.  We  pur- 
posely put  you  in  a  room  with  young  Piivate 


44  THE  SEVEN-BRANCHED  CANDLESTICK 

Ornstein  because  we  thought  it  would  be  more 
— er,  more  congenial." 

I  saw  what  he  was  driving  at,  and  went  away 
miserable.  So  they  knew  it  up  here,  too:  I  was 
a  Jew,  and  must  be  separated  from  the  others 
as  if  I  had  the  plague !  I  felt  sorry  for  myself. 

I  was  not  particularly  homesick,  though  I 
had  never  been  able  to  develop  much  love  for  my 
Aunt  Selina.  She  had  not  given  me  the  chance. 
But  the  unaccustomed  severing  from  all  that 
was  mine:  my  room  at  home,  the  street  that  I 
saw  from  its  window,  the  burly,  Irish  "cop"  who 
stood  on  the  corner  and  passed  me  an  occasional 
lofty  jest — and  a  thousand  other  things,  inti- 
mate and  absurdly  unimportant  I  missed  with 
dull  emptiness. 

The  school  was  comfortable  enough.  It  was 
a  huge,  barn-like  affair,  built  in  the  previous 
generation  and  hardly  ever  repainted  since  then, 
to  look  at  it  The  towers  at  either  end  of  it 
had  tin  and  battered  battlements,  and  the  flanks 
of  steps  which  went  up  the  hill  on  which  it 
stood  were  worn  with  the  tread  of  the  hundreds 
of  boys  who  had  marched  upon  them,  each  suc- 
ceeding year.  It  was  so  with  the  stairs  all 
through  the  building:  each  step  had  a  shallow, 
smooth  cup  which  years  of  treading  had  ground 
cut.  It  gave  me  a  creepy  sense  of  the  place's 
antiquity. 


THE  MILITARY  ACADEMY  45 

There  was  a  large  parade  ground  at  the  back 
of  the  building.  Its  grass  was  brown  and  mealy, 
and  a  flag  pole,  sagging  slightly  to  one  side, 
jutted  up  from  the  center  of  it  like  a  long, 
lone  fin. 

In  the  quadrangle  where  we  formed  in  line 
to  march  to  the  mess-hall,  stood  a  huge  oak  tree, 
century-old,  with  twisted  limbs  and  browning 
leaves.  On  one  of  those  limbs,  they  told  me,  an 
American  spy  was  hanged  by  the  British  in  Rev- 
olutionary  days — but  it  may  have  been  only  a 
fable.  I  have  since  learned  that  almost  every 
military  school  along  the  Hudson  has  its  Rev- 
olutionary oak — but,  at  the  time,  it  made  a 
deep  impression  on  me,  so  that  I  could  not  bear 
to  hear  the  creaking  of  the  branches  against 
my  do-rmitO'ry  window. 

This  dormitory,  to  which  I  and  my  belongings 
repaired,  was  a  long,  narrow,  whitewashed  room, 
crowded  with  iron  cots  and  intruding  ward- 
robes. At  night,  when  the  bugle  had  blown  taps 
and  the  lights  were  dimmed,  there  was  a  ghostly 
quality  to  the  rows  of  white  and  huddled  figures 
that  lay  the  length  of  the  room.  There  was 
never  absolute  quiet.  Sometimes  some  little  boy 
would  be  sobbinsr,  sometimes  two  of  the  older 
ones  would  be  telling  each  other  the  sort  of 
jokes  that  davligfht  forbids — and  sometimps  it 
would  be  the  heaw,  asthmatic  breathing  of  the 
proctor  who  was  there  to  keep  charge, 


46     THE  SEVEN-BRANCHED  CANDLESTICK 

Of  the  boys  themselves  I  could  not  judge  at 
first.  I  was  too  young  to  judge,  at  that:  but 
I  was  not  too  young  that  I  could  not  realize 
they  were  not  of  the  same  sort  as  I  had  known 
in  the  city.  There  I  had  known  the  pupils  of 
a  public  school,  poor,  rough,  almost  always  hard 
workers,  eager  for  whatever  seemed  fair  and 
quick  and  democratic.  But  these  boys  were  of 
wealthy  parents,  most  of  them.  There  were  only 
a  few  of  them  who  held  scholarships,  and  these 
did  jobs  so  menial  and  embarrassing  that,  even 
under  the  most  ideal  conditions,  they  must  have 
suffered  in  the  opinions  of  the  rest  of  the  school. 
As  a  matter  of  fact,  we  were  a  brutal  little 
crowd  of  snobs,  and  made  life  miserable  for 
these  poorer  scholars  who  must  sweep  the  halls 
and  wash  dishes. 

I  do  not  think  all  military  schools  are  like 
the  one  I  attended.  I  hope  not.  I  gained  from 
my  year  there  much  in  the  way  of  physical  de- 
velopment— but  that  is  all.  For  every  inch  of 
muscle  that  I  put  on  I  lost  something  worth 
incalculably  more:  honesty  and  cleanliness  of 
mind  and  what  little  shred  of  self-reliance  I 
possessed.  Somehow  or  other,  it  seemed  to  me 
that  I  had  reached  the  lowest  rung  of  boyhood 
here — and,  as  I  look  back  upon  it,  I  know  that 
I  was  not  much  mistaken. 

I  wrote  to  ask  my  aunt  to  take  me  away.    She 


THE  MILITARY  ACADEMY  47 

refused  to  come  to  see  me — but  scribbled  a  few 
empty  lines  to  accuse  me  of  homesickness,  and 
to  assure  me  I  should  soon  be  rid  of  it. 

We  did  much  more  drilling  than  studying. 
Though  nearly  all  of  us  intended  to  go  to  col- 
lege, our  school  day  was  confined  to  about  three 
Lours  at  the  most — and  under  teachers  who  were 
always  surly,  sneering  and  uncouth.  The  stand- 
ard of  work  in  the  classroom  was  very  low.  At 
first  I  did  not  have  any  trouble  at  all  in  leading 
the  entire  school  in  scholarship;  but  gradually, 
under  the  careless  and  relaxed  conditions,  I  grew 
unambitious,  lazy — and  found  myself  failing 
among  a  class  of  boys  who,  I  secretly  knew,  were 
my  mental  inferiors.  It  is  so  much  a  matter 
of  competition,  of  environment. 

Of  friends  I  made  few:  even  of  those  school- 
boy friends  who  are  your  "pals"  one  day,  your 
sworn  enemies  the  next.  I  had  one  or  two>  senti- 
mental encounters  with  a  brewer's  son — a  great, 
beefy  ox  of  a  boy  who  lorded  it  over  all  of  us 
because  he  kept  his  own  private  horse  in  the 
town  livery  stable  and  had  his  room  furnished 
with  real  mission  furniture.  But  he  had  no 
use  for  me  when  he  realized  that  I  was  a  Jew, 
and  took  particular  pains  to  transfer  me  from 
the  company  of  which  he  was  first  sergeant  into 
the  band. 

The  band,  so-called  in  spite  of  the  fact  that 


48  THE  SEVEN-BRANCHED  CANDLESTICK 

it  was  composed  of  only  fifes,  drums  and  bugles, 
was  a  sadly  amateurish  thing.  The  little  knowl- 
edge of  music  that  I  had  was  just  so  much  more 
than  that  possessed  by  any  other  member  of 
the  organization.  As  a  result  I  soon  rose  to  the 
magnificence  of  cadet  drum-major,  an  office 
which  involved  a  tall,  silvered  stick  and  a  shako 
of  sweltering  bear-skin.  Thus,  my  military 
training  consisted  mostly  of  learning  to  twirl  the 
baton;  and  when  semi-annual  examinations  re- 
sulted in  disaster  for  me,  I  was  reduced  to  the 
humility  of  a  private  without  having  gained 
more  than  the  knack  of  sending  a  silvered  rod 
in  rapid  circles  about  my  stiff  and  sorely-tried 
thumb. 

At  that,  I  was  glad  to  return  to  the  ranks. 
There  had  been  plenty  of  criticism  of  the  fact 
that  a  "plebe"  should  have  risen  so  quickly  to 
an  officership.  And,  of  course,  as  Jewish  boys 
always  do,  I  imagined  that  the  demonstration 
was  just  another  evidence  of  race  prejudice. 
Undoubtedly  it  was,  to  some  extent — but  I  know 
that  I  have  always  been  too  suspicious  in  that 
direction.  Had  I  been  braver  about  it,  I  should 
have  been  less  suspicious. 

One  friend  I  did  make:  a  lieutenant-adjutant 
whose  first  name  was  Sydney  and  who  was  in 
charge  of  the  punishment  marks  that  were  al- 
lotted us  for  our  various  misdemeanors.  Many 


THE  MILITARY   ACADEMY  49 

a  time  did  Sydney,  for  my  sake,  forget  to  re- 
cord the  two  or  four  marks  which  some  crabbed 
teacher  had  charged  against  me  for  inattention 
or  disorderly  conduct. 

He  was  a  big,  handsome  chap,  with  the  most 
attractive  manners  I  have  ever  met.  He  was  a 
scholarship  boy — so  that  he  had  begun  his  school 
year  with  a  hundred  and  one  unpleasant  tasks 
to  perform.  But  somehow  or  other  he  had  man- 
aged to  be  rid  of  them  all  excepting  this  digni- 
fied one  of  "keeping  the  books" — and  I  am  sure 
it  must  have  been  a  lucrative  one,  in  a  small 
way,  for  Sydney's  room  was  full  of  pictures 
which  had  been  given  him  from  other  boys' 
rooms,  of  canes  and  banners — even  of  a  half 
dozen  pair  of  patent  leather  shoes — which  may 
or  may  not  have  come  to  him  in  return  for  his 
apt  juggling  of  those  hated  punishment  marks. 

I  am  not  attempting  to  judge  him — and  I  will 
tell  you  much  more  of  him  later  on — but  I  must 
remember  him  as  one  of  the  most  wonderful  of 
friends:  always  smiling,  always  ready  to  join 
in  upon  whatever  lark  was  planning — a  bit  of 
a  daredevil,  very  much  of  a  protector  when  the 
bullies  of  the  school  were  pressing  too  close  for 
comfort. 

During  the  year,  of  course,  I  saw  or  heard 
nothing  that  could  remind  me  of  my  Faith.  We 
had  to  go  to  church  on  Sunday  mornings.  I  was 


50     THE  SEVEN-BRANCHED  CANDLESTICK 

given  my  choice,  and  tried  accompanying  one 
squad  after  another.  I  went  to  the  Epis- 
copal, the  Methodist^  the  Presbyterian — and 
it  was  the  last  that  I  finally  selected  for 
good.  There  was  a  splendid  old  pastor  there; 
his  white  hair  and  trumpeting  voice  gave  him 
venerableness,  even  when  he  spoke  of  things  that 
seemed  to  me  very  childish  and  obvious. 

Once  the  commandant,  twirling  his  mustaches, 
asked  me  whether  I  should  not  like  to  go  to  the 
synagogue  on  Friday  nights  (there  was  a  small 
one  at  the  edge  of  the  town).  I  did  not  care 
much  about  the  religious  inspiration  to  be  gained 
from  the  Hebrew  service,  but  I  did  think  it 
would  be  jolly  fun  to  be  allowed  to  go  down  into 
the  town  at  night.  And  yet  I  knew  that  some 
of  my  schoolmates  would  come  to  know  why  I 
went,  and  what  sort  of  services  I  attended,  and 
— reluctantly — I  declined  the  opportunity. 

I  do  not  know  what  the  bumptious  command- 
ant thought  of  it,  but  he  pulled  his  mustaches 
very,  very  hard. 


VI 

MY  STEEEFOETH 

I  WISH  I  could  write  this  episode  in  quite 
a  different  tone  from  all  the  others.  I  wish 
I  could  summon  all  the  tenderness  of  which 
boyhood  has — and  which  it  loses — and  put  it 
into  the  lines  of  the  recital  that  is  now  due.  Be- 
cause, then,  perhaps,  you  would  have  some 
knowledge  and  appreciation  of  what  the  last 
few  months  of  my  stay  at  the  military  school 
meant  for  me. 

David  Copperfield  had  his  Steerforth.  Every 
boy  must  have  one.  Certainly,  /  did.  And  I 
worshipped  him  with  all  the  ardor  and  unques- 
tioning devotion  that  could  come  fresh  from  a 
boy-heart  which  had  never  yet  given  itself  to 
friendship.  Steerforth  was  a  villain;  but  in 
David's  eye  he  was  always,  unalterably,  a 
glorious  hero.  This  is  how  it  was,  perhaps,  with 
Sydney — though  he  was  no  villain,  I  am  sure. 

I  spoke  of  him  in  my  last  chapter:  told  you 
that  he  was  a  poor  student,  much  in  favor  with 
the  commandant  for  his  good  services.  I  have 
told  you,  he  was  tall,  fair-haired,  with  locks  that 


52     THE  SEVEN-BRANCHED  CANDLESTICK 

waved  back  from  his  white  forehead  (as  Steer- 
forth's  did,  as  I  remember)  and  merry,  blue 
eyes. 

He  befriended  me  because  it  was  of  his  gen- 
erous nature  to  befriend  all  the  lonelier  boys.  He 
used  to  pal  with  all  the  school  "freaks,"  to  coun- 
sel them,  to  drill  them  privately,  so  that 
they  should  be  more  proficient  on  parade.  He 
used  to  make  me  very  jealous  of  his  large  circle 
of  small  worshippers.  I  thought  that  privilege 
ought  to  be  kept  for  me  alone. 

He  used  to  read  with  me,  on  spring  nights,  in 
the  school's  dingy  library.  We  read  "David 
Copperfield"  together ;  and  would  glance  up  from 
the  page  to  watch,  from  the  windows,  the  pale 
but  glowing  battle  of  sunset  colors  over  the  hills 
and  mirrored  in  the  darkling  stretch  of  the 
Hudson.  And  sometimes,  when  the  story  would 
not  give  us  respite,  he  would  smuggle  the  book 
up  into  the  dormitory — and  when  all  was  dark 
there,  and  the  proctor  slept,  we  would  creep  into 
the  hall  and  read  by  its  dusky  light  until  long 
into  the  night.  I  have  read  "David  Copper- 
field"  again  since  then — but  not  with  so  ex- 
quisite a  thrill. 

And  reading  of  Steerforth,  I  used  to  look  up 
at  Sydney  and  imagine  that  he  was  that  fine, 
attractive  fellow — and  that  I,  dumb  but  ecstatic 
in  my  pride  of  friendship,  was  little  David. 


MY  STEERFORTH  53 

It  seemed  so  wonderful  to  me,  especially, 
that  he  was  a  Christian  and  I  a  Jew,  and  yet 
there  had  never  been  any  question  of  difference 
between  us.  Other  boys  who  had  given  me  some- 
thing of  their  friendship  had  made  such  a  brave 
point  of  telling  me  that  they  didn't  mind  my 
being  a  Jew — that  there  were  just  as  many  good 
Jews  as  there  were  bad  ones — and  all  those  other 
stupid  and  inevitable  remarks  that  we  must 
swallow  and  forget.  But  with  Sydney  it  was 
not  like  that.  He  had  never  mentioned  it,  and 
it  seemed  as  if  he  knew  that  I  dreaded  the  sub- 
ject— and  so  kept  silent  on  it  out  of  kindness. 

Sometimes,  when  the  days  were  warm  and  the 
trees  were  budding,  we  went  off  together  on 
long  walks  through  the  country.  Sidney  taught 
me  to  smoke  cigarettes,  and  we  would  stop  on 
our  way  at  a  little  village  store  that  lay  at  the 
end  of  a  hilly  road. 

An  old  man,  who  was  an  invalid,  owned  the 
store.  But  he  sat  all  day  at  his  little  card  table 
in  the  dark,  untidy  rear,  playing  solitaire;  and 
it  was  his  young  daughter  who  would  wait  on  us 
behind  the  counter. 

She  was  a  thin,  dull-looking  girl,  scarcely 
pretty,  yet  with  large,  sombre  eyes  that  her  lonely 
task  explained.  She  was  ignorant,  I  am  sure, 
and  knew  little  of  what  went  on  in  the  town  at 
the  river's  edge  or  in  the  big  city,  fifty-odd  miles 


64  THE  SEVEN-BRANCHED  CANDLESTICK 

away.  But  there  was  something  pathetic  about 
her  position — and  when  Sydney  made  it  more 
and  more  a  custom  to  talk  to  her,  to  make 
friendly  advances,  I  thought  it  only  the  big  gen- 
erosity of  his  heart  pouring  out  to  succor  an- 
other such  shy  soul  as  mine. 

Once  or  twice  it  was  not  until  evening  that 
we  could  steal  "off  bounds,"  and  then  we  would 
make  straight  for  the  little  store,  as  if  we  knew 
that,  if  we  did  not  hurry,  it  would  be  closed 
for  the  night.  And  we  would  have  only  a  few 
hurried  words,  but  laughing,  with  the  girl — and 
she  would  look  up  at  Sidney  with  a  light  in  those 
big  eyes  of  hers  that  I  had  never  seen  before  in 
any  woman's.  She  left  her  counter,  once,  and 
walked  all  the  way  home  with  us;  and  I  saw, 
in  the  blue  of  the  gloaming,  that  her  hand  was 
tightly  clasped  in  Sydney's,  and  that  he  whis- 
pered things  to  her  under  his  breath,  as  soon 
as  I  was  gone  a  little  way  ahead  of  them,  and 
that  they  both  laughed — and  she  looked  up  at 
him  as  a  dumb  animal  to  its  master.  She  came 
as  far  as  the  school  gate ;  and  after  I  had  gotten 
within,  they  stood  for  a  moment  together — and 
I  thought  I  could  hear  the  sound  of  kissing.  It 
was  only  then  that  I  began  to  be  troubled. 

Sydney,  who  was  a  lieutenant  in  the  cadet 
battalion,  had  more  privileges  than  I.  He  could 
leave  the  premises  when  he  pleased.  He  never 


MY  STEERFORTH  65 

had  to  sign  the  big  book  in  the  hall  when  leaving 
and  arriving  back.  He  needed  never  to  give  ac- 
count of  what  he  did  "off  bounds."  It  was  an 
easy  matter  for  him — and  there  were  many 
times,  now,  that  he  went  off  alone.  No  one 
knew  why  he  used  to  take  that  little  country 
road  that  led  up  the  hill  towards  a  stupid  old 
country  store.  No  one,  that  is,  but  me. 

At  first  I  did  not  think  much  of  the  girl's  side 
of  it.  I  was  bitterly  disappointed  that  some  one 
else  had  come  between  my  friend  and  me.  I  was 
jealous  of  all  the  time  he  spent  with  her,  of  the 
hours  of  reading  and  walking  and  jesting  that 
once  were  mine — and  of  which  the  lure  of  her 
had  robbed  me. 

But  once,  when  we  were  at  the  store,  and  I 
stood  aside  from  them,  watching  the  humped 
back  of  her  old  father,  bent  over  his  card  table, 
and  saw  the  feeble  shaking  of  his  hand,  I  began  to 
comprehend  what  it  might  mean  to  him  if  any- 
thing should  happen.  Not  that  I  knew  what 
might  happen.  I  was  still  very  young — but  I 
felt  the  chill  foreboding  of  tragedy  lurking  some- 
where in  the  background  of  it  all.  The  dingy 
little  shop,  with  its  flyspecked  glass  cases  and  its 
dusty  rows  of  untouched  stock;  the  lights  dim- 
med and  blackened  by  clusters  of  whirling  in- 
sects ;  the  old  father  with  his  bent  back — and  the 
two  of  them  standing  there  and  laughing,  gazing 


66  TEE  SEVEN-BRANCHED  CANDLESTICK 

into  each  other's  faces  with  the  look  of  youth 
and  the  Springtime. 

And  I  went  out  quickly  and  stumbled  my  way 
home  alone,  leaving  Sydney  to  follow  after. 

When  Sidney  came  in,  after  taps,  I  stole  from 
my  bed  to  his  to  speak  to  him  of  it.  But  the 
words  would  not  form  themselves  suitably,  and 
he  laughed  at  my  poor  stammerings,  and  sent 
me  off  to  bed  again. 

But  one  night,  just  before  "tattoo,"  when  the 
fruit  trees  were  frothing  with  light  blossoms  and 
the  scent  of  lilacs  was  heavy  in  the  air,  Sydney 
gent  for  me.  He  was  officer-of-the-day,  to-day, 
and  could  not  leave  the  premises.  He  wanted 
me  to  go  in  his  place,  to  meet  the  girl  and  to 
explain  why  he  could  not  keep  his  appointment. 

I  looked  at  him  in  amazement.  "Do  you  mean 
to  say,  you've  been  meeting  her  every  night.  As 
late  as  this?  Alone?" 

He  was  playing  with  the  tassel  at  the  end  of 
the  red  sash  which  the  officer-of-the-day  wears 
about  his  waist.  He  let  it  drop  and  gave  me  a 
quick  glance. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  "and  mind  you  don't  tell 
anybody,  either.  You'll  have  to  sneak  off 
bounds — but  I'll  see  you  don't  run  much  of  a 
risk.  You  can  leave  that  part  to  me." 

Then,  when  he  saw  me  hesitate,  he  began  to 
plead.  "Oh,  say,  you  won't  go  back  on  me,  will 


MY  STEERFORTH  57 

you?  I've  been  a  good  friend  to  you  and  done 
you  lots  of  favors — and  now  when  I  ask  you  to 
take  a  little  risk  for  me.  .  .  ." 

I  smiled.  "You  don't  understand,  Sydney," 
said.  "It  isn't  the  risk." 

"Then  what  is  it?" 

"It's— it's  the  girl." 

He  stepped  back  from  me,  and  his  face  took 
on  a  coldness  I  had  never  seen  before.  "Don't 
worry  about  that,"  he  exclaimed.  "That's  my 
business." 

Then,  as  I  hesitated,  he  burst  out:  "Hurry 
up,  now,  you  little  Jew !" 

I  stood  very  still  for  a  minute.  Then  I  felt 
my  face  flush  hot  and  I  flung  away  from  him. 

It  had  come  at  last.  He,  my  best  friend — my 
only  friend — he  had  called  me  a  Jew ! 

I  wanted  to  scream  back  at  him,  to  beat  him 
with  my  fist,  to  denounce  him  and  curse  him. 
I  felt  betrayed,  degraded  as  I  had  never  been 
before.  Then  I  gulped  hard  and  controlled  my- 
self. 

I  said  nothing.  I  merely  saluted  and  set  off 
upon  his  errand. 

But  I  did  not  find  the  girl  at  the  street  cor- 
ner he  had  mentioned.  I  went  on,  only  a  few 
hundred  yards,  to  the  store.  There  was  a  dim 
blue  light  in  one  of  its  windows,  and  I  crept  up 
and  pressed  my  face  against  the  glass,  knowing 


68  THE  SEVEN-BRANCHED  CANDLESTICK 

that  she  was  probably  sitting  up  and  waiting. 

Yes,  she  was  there — behind  the  counter,  with 
her  shawl  still  over  her  head  and  her  eyes  fixed 
on  the  cheap  wall  clock.  She  could  not  see  me  in 
the  darkness  outside — not  even  when  she  turned 
her  head  and  gave  me  a  full  view  of  her  face, 
so  that  I  could  see  how  strangely  pale  and  set  it 
was,  and  how  deeply  lurking  in  her  eyes  was  the 
fear  of  the  moment. 

I  did  not  go  in  and  tell  her  anything.  I  could 
not.  The  sight  of  her  and  the  appeal  of  her 
thin,  tragic  little  body  sent  me  hurrying  back 
with  my  errand  uncompleted — and  glad,  madly 
glad  that  it  was  so. 

I  crept  up  to  bed  as  soon  as  I  was  "in  bounds." 
again.  I  wanted  to  avoid  Sydney.  Nor  would  I 
give  him  a  chance  to  speak  to  me  the  next  morn- 
ing. I  felt  that  I  knew  now,  almost  in  its  entirety, 
the  scheme  he  was  laying — and  the  climax  which 
was  fast  approaching.  And,  after  having  seen 
her,  as  I  did  last  night,  I  knew  that  I  could 
never  go  walking  with  him  again  or  have  more 
to  do  with  him,  and  that  I  must  go  back  to  her, 
some  day  soon,  traitor- wise,  and  warn  her  against 
him  who  had  been  my  best  friend. 

In  the  afternoon,  after  school  was  done,  a 
crowd  of  us  obtained  permission  to  go  swimming 
in  a  nearby  lake.  Sydney  was  among  us:  the 
leader  of  us,  in  fact.  He  tried  to  speak  to  me— 


MY  STEERFORTH  69 

perhaps  he  was  going  to  apologize  ix>  me  for  hav- 
ing called  me  a  Jew — I  do  not  know.  But, 
though  I  did  not  give  him  the  chance,  I  remem- 
ber well  how  tall  and  brave  he  looked,  and  how 
his  hair  waved  back  from  his  forehead  like  Steer- 
forth's. 

And  like  Steerforth,  too,  he  was  drowned. 

Schoolboys  are  careless  of  their  swimming. 
We  did  not  notice  until  it  was  long  too  late  that 
Sydney  had  disappeared.  When  his  body  was 
recovered,  the  doctors  worked  over  it  for  fully 
two  hours.  But  it  was  no  use. 


His  funeral  was  held  in  the  school  parlor  the 
next  morning.  But  it  had  been  a  night  of  ter- 
rors, of  whispering  groups,  of  Death's  shadow 
over  us  all — and  we  were  but  children.  His 
empty  bed,  his  dress  uniform  tossed  carelessly 
over  the  back  of  a  chair,  the  knowledge  of  his  in- 
sensible presence  in  the  undertaker's  shop  at  the 
other  end  of  town  .  .  .  brought  fear  and 
wakefulness  to  us  all. 

And  as  for  me,  I  sat  all  night  at  the  dormitory 
window  and  listening  to  the  creak  and  groan  of 
the  old  Revolutionary  oak  in  the  quadrangle, 
thought  of  many  things:  of  the  walks  we  had 
taken,  of  the  hundred  smiling  adventures  we  had 
shared,  of  all  the  glad  things  he  had  taught  me — 


60  THE  SEVEN-BRANCHED  CANDLESTICK 

and  then,  of  the  girl — and  of  the  tragic  face  of 
her — as  I  had  seen  it  last. 

And  I  wished  that  he  had  lived  only  a  few 
minutes  longer  so  that  I  might  have  pleaded  with 
him  and  shown  him  where  he  was  wrong.  And, 
perhaps,  in  those  few  minutes  he  would 
have  reached  out  his  hand  to  me,  and 
begged  forgiveness  for  having  called  me 
what  he  did — perhaps  he  might  have  done 
so — and  oh,  I  wanted  with  all  my  heart  to  for- 
give him  and  tell  him  it  did  not  matter — and  to 
wish  him  God-speed. 

But  in  a  few  days,  when  I  summoned 
enough  courage  to  go  up  the  hilly  road  in  search 
of  the  little  old  store,  I  found  it  closed.  The 
cracked  shades  were  down  before  the  windows, 
and  a  "For  Sale"  sign  was  on  the  door.  The 
father  and  daughter  had  moved  away,  I  heard 
in  the  town;  but  no  one  knew  where — or  why. 

But  when  I  was  back  in  the  dormitory,  I  took 
the  book  of  "David  Copperfield"  from  under  my 
pillow,  and  put  it  back  in  the  library,  and  did 
not  attempt  to  read  further  in  it,  then. 


VII 
FRESHMAN   YEAR 

NEW  adventures  must  be  prefaced  by  new 
hopes.  My  entering  college  meant  the  starting 
of  a  thousand  new  dreams,  ambitions — and 
seemed  to  me  an  opening  gate  to  a  land  stronger 
than  any  I  had  yet  heard  of :  a  land  of  real  men, 
virile,  courteous  and  kind,  whose  thoughts  were 
never  petty,  whose  breadth  of  mind  unfailing. 

It  was  only  a  few  weeks  after  Sydney's  death 
that  I  took  my  college  entrance  examinations.  I 
had  taken  the  "preliminaries"  the  year  before, 
and  I  entered  upon  these  "finals"  low  in  spirit, 
disinterested,  very  much  aware  of  how  poor  a 
training  for  them  this  last  year  at  military  school 
had  given  me. 

Nevertheless,  I  managed  to  pass  them.  Not 
brilliantly,  to  be  sure,  but  by  a  small  margin 
which  left  no  doubt  but  that  I  should  be  accepted 
in  the  freshman  class  of  the  city's  university. 

I  have  not  called  my  alma  mater  by  any  other 
name  than  this :  I  do  not  wish,  out  of  a  sense  of 
loyalty,  to  define  it  more  closely.  You  will  say, 
before  I  am  through,  that  I  am  perverse  in  that 

61 


62     THE  SEVEN-BRANCHED  CANDLESTICK 

loyalty ;  perhaps  so — but  I  do  not  wish  to  trans- 
gress upon  it.  Suffice  it  then,  that  my  college 
days  were  spent  at  one  of  the  two  universities 
which  New  York  has  within  its  borders. 

I  shall  never  forget  how  my  heart  bounded 
when  I  received,  through  the  mail,  that  little 
leather  covered  book  which  college  men  know  as 
the  "Freshman  Bible."  It  is  the  directory  of 
undergraduate  activities  issued  by  the  univer- 
sity Y.  M.  C.  A.,  and  is  sent  to  all  members 
of  the  incoming  class.  I  read  each  little  page 
and  its  small,  fine  print  as  if  my  life  depended 
upon  its  reading.  When  I  came  to  understand 
that  freshman  must  wear  a  black,  green-buttoned 
cap  upon  the  campus,  a  deep  awe  of  collegiate 
law  and  order  came  over  me.  When  I  saw  the 
little  half-tone  prints  of  the  chapel,  the  gym- 
nasium, the  baseball  field,  I  felt  that  I  was 
glimpsing,  before  my  proper  time,  the  sacred 
precincts  of  a  land  which  would  be  magical,  splen- 
did with  an  eternal  sunlight,  peopled  only  with  a 
chivalrous  and  knightly  manhood.  I  suppose 
that  college  was  to  me,  as  to  most  subfreshman, 
a  place  of  green  swards  and  track  meets  and 
those  musical  harmonies  which  glee  clubs  can  so 
throatily  accomplish. 

I  was  at  the  hotel  in  New  Hampshire  when 
this  book  arrived.  The  very  same  mail  brought 
me  the  definite  results  of  my  college  entrance  ex- 
aminations. I  remember  that  I  was  just  start- 


FRESHMAN  YEAR  63 

ing  to  walk  down  to  the  lake  with  my  aunt  when 
they  arrived.  I  knew  what  was  in  the  big 
ominous  envelope — and  I  was  afraid  to  open  it. 
I  crammed  it  into  my  coat  pocket,  careful  not  to 
let  my  Aunt  Selina  see  it,  and  went  on  to  the 
boat  house,  hired  a  boat  and  rowed  her  dutifully 
around  the  lake  for  a  full  two  hours.  She  re- 
marked upon  my  silence — but  I  did  not  tell  her 
that  my  fate  was  in  my  pocket — and  that  I  dared 
not  look  upon  it. 

But  when  I  was  back  at  the  hotel,  I  went 
straightway  to  my  room  and  opened  the  en- 
velope, stripped  out  the  blue,  bank-note  sheet 
and  read — yes,  I  had  passed  every  examination. 
And  I  was  a  regularly  enrolled  student  at  the 
university. 

I  told  my  aunt  of  it  at  lunch,  as  if  it  were 
a  casual  thing — and  she  treated  it  as  such,  too. 
If  I  had  had  any  doubts  of  her  lack  of  genuine 
interest  in  me,  I  knew  it  now  for  certain.  It 
was  just  a  matter  of  course  to  her — this  en- 
trance into  college — and  to  me,  in  turn,  it  meant 
so  much :  a  new  work,  a  new  land,  a  life  entirely 
new  and  shot  through  with  hopes.  I  did  not 
tell  her  that,  but  let  her  change  the  topic  quickly. 
She  was  intent  upon  talking  fashions  with  Mrs. 
Fleming-Cohen. 

I  had  hated  to  come  to  this  hotel  for  another 
year.  The  people  persisted  in  making  things 


64  THE  SEVEN-BRANCHED  CANDLESTICK 

graciously  unpleasant  for  us.  I  was  beginning  to 
be  old  enough  to  feel  it  keenly — and  not  old 
enough  to  overlook.  I  wonder,  for  that  matter, 
if  Jews  are  ever  old  enough  to  overlook  it? 

But  Aunt  Selina  was  dictatress  of  my  des- 
tinies. She  had  declared  I  must  either  come 
along  to  the  hotel  or  else  I  would  not  be  allowed 
to  enter  college.  In  the  face  of  such  an  alter- 
native I  had  yielded  quickly.  But  there  had 
already  begun  between  my  aunt  and  me  a  chasm 
that  grew  daily  wider,  deeper,  more  hopelessly 
incapable  of  bridging.  When  one  has  been  away 
for  a  year,  one  returns  to  find  grim  truths.  I 
had  met  other  people,  seen  other  lives  and  other 
souls  since  I  had  been  in  boarding  school:  1 
was  not  clouded  now  by  my  blood  relationship 
to  Mrs.  Haberman  or  by  day  after  day  of  close 
but  unintimate  companionship.  I  saw  her  as 
she  was:  a  shallow,  flighty  woman  whose 
thoughts  were  always  upon  that  sort  of  society 
which  spells  itself  with  a  capital  S,  whose  petu- 
lance found  no  ease — always  restless,  always 
ambitious  for  petty  things,  wanting  only  what 
she  could  not  have — an  idle  woman,  foolish  in 
her  idleness. 

In  spite  of  her  taking  it  as  a  matter  of  course, 
she  spent  the  whole  day,  after  she  had  learned 
my  news,  in  spreading  it  about  the  porch  and 
parlors  of  the  hotel.  She  seemed  to  imagine 


FRESHMAN  YEAR  «5 

that  it  would  interest  every  one — even  Mrs.  Van 
Brunt,  the  arbiter  of  elegance  of  the  hiountain 
clique,  who,  on  hearing  it,  sniffed,  patted  her 
lorgnette  with  a  lace  handkerchief,  and  inquired 
if  a  great  many  Jews  did  not  attend  this  par- 
ticular university. 

"Really,  I  should  not  think  of  sending  any 
relative  of  mine  there,"  she  sniffed.  "Not  that 
I  have  a  prejudice  against  Jews,  of  course — in 
fact,  I  consider  myself  very  democratic.  I  have 
many  Jewish  acquaintances.  Many  of  my  best 
friends  are  Jews." 

My  aunt,  who  had  undoubtedly  had  to  listen 
to  these  catchwords  as  often  as  any  other  Jew 
or  Jewess  must,  attempted  not  to  understand 
why  Mrs.  Van  Brunt  had  spoken  them.  A  few 
minutes  later  she  made  a  few  unblinking  and 
pointed  remarks  about  having  to  attend  a  con- 
vention of  Christian  Science  workers  in  the  fall — 
as  if  to  protest  that  Mrs.  Van  Brunt  had  made 
a  grievous  and  embarrassing  error. 

I  asked  my  aunt,  a  few  days  later,  if  I  was 
not  to  be  allowed  to  live  in  one  of  the  university 
dormitories.  Whether  or  not  his  college  is  in 
his  home  town,  every  boy  wants  the  full  flavor 
of  undergraduate  life — wants  to  live  on  the 
campus,  to  throw  himself  heart  and  soul  into  the 
college  games  and  customs.  I  could  not  see 
how  college  would  mean  anything  to  me  if  I 


66     THE  SEVEN-BRANCHED  CANDLESTICK 

were  to  go  on  living  at  home  in  that  dull,  com- 
fortless apartment  of  Aunt  Selina's. 

Youth  is  always  eager  for  emancipation — al- 
ways a  little  too  thoughtless  in  its  eagerness. 

Perhaps  I  was  wrong  in  forgetting  what  I 
owed  Aunt  Selina.  She  took  great  offense  at  my 
wish.  She  spoke,  her  voice  choked  with  tears,  of 
the  many  years  that  she  had  cared  for  me,  fost- 
ered me,  guarded  me  from  a  world  of  foreign 
things — "ruffians  and  kikes  and  niggers,"  was 
the  way  she  described  it. 

At  any  rate,  I  remember  that  I  spent  a  whole 
day  in  thinking  it  out  for  myself  upon  a  lonely 
walk,  and  that,  at  the  end  of  it,  I  came  to  tell 
her  that  she  was  right  and  that  I  was  ashamed 
of  wanting  to  leave  her — that  I  would  live  home 
with  her,  and  try  to  gain  the  best  of  college  in 
that  way.  Privately,  I  knew  that  I  could  never 
gain  as  much — but  I  had  made  up  my  mind  not 
to  pain  her,  confident  that  it  would  be  worth 
the  sacrifice. 

The  days  lagged  slowly  to  the  end  of  that 
summer.  I  was  preparing  in  a  hundred  little 
ways  for  the  great  adventure:  sending  for  all 
sorts  of  stereotyped  books  on  the  moral  conduct 
of  college  men,  on  the  art  of  making  friends, 
on  the  history  and  traditions  of  my  university. 
I  was  prepared  to  be  its  most  loyal  son.  I  could 
hardly  wait  for  the  stupid  weeks  at  this  moun- 


FRESHMAN  YEAR  67 

tain  hotel  to  pass  by,  for  the  opening  day  to 
arrive. 

And  then,  when  the  trees  were  beginning  to 
fleck  with  scarlet  and  the  summer  heather 
streaked  with  goldenrod,  we  did  depart  for  the 
city.  It  was  only  a  week  before  college  would 
begin. 

Then  five  days,  four  days,  three,  two,  one. 
And  on  the  night  before  registration  day,  which 
would  commence  the  college  year,  I  sat  for  a 
long  while  at  my  table-desk,  dreaming  high 
things — hope  and  fear  mingling  with  my  dreams, 
charging  them  with  an  exquisite  uncertainty, 
making  them  pulse  with  the  things  that  were 
innermost  in  me. 

I  was  old  enough,  I  thought,  to  review  all  the 
past — to  see  myself  with  youth's  over-harsh 
criticism  of  itself — to  realize  that,  so  far,  I  had 
made  a  miserable,  cringing,  cowardly  botch  of 
my  conduct  and  convictions.  Some  day,  soon, 
I  seemed  to  feel,  there  would  come  a  moment  of 
crisis — a  moment  when  all  the  shy,  stammering 
manhood  that  I  knew  to  be  in  my  heart  would 
fling  itself  suddenly  into  the  open  and  make  me 
strong  and  confident,  helpful  to  myself  and  many 
others.  I  had  always  longed  to  be  a  leader — as 
every  boy  does — and  so  far  I  had  been  a  slave — 
slave,  most  abjectly  of  all,  to  my  own  fears  and 
prejudices.  But  it  would  be  different  at  col- 


«8  THE  SEVEN-BRANCHED  CANDLESTICK 

lege :  there  would  be  something — I  did  not  know 
•what — which  would  fling  courage  into  me,  fill 
my  veins  with  flame — and  it  troubled  me  to  won- 
der what  that  thing  would  be.  Had  any  one 
told  me,  then,  that  it  would  be  Judaism,  I  should 
have  either  laughed  or  been  insulted. 

For  I  was  just  as  much  afraid  as  ever  of  what 
hardships  my  religion  might  work  for  me  at 
college.  I  had  as  much  fear,  as  much  abhorrence 
of  the  truth,  in  that  regard.  I  wanted  so  much  to 
forget  it — to  be  one  of  the  other  sort,  little  car- 
ing for  creed  in  any  form,  but  wishing  I  were 
safe  in  the  comfort  of  having  been  born  into 
the  faith  of  the  majority.  As  I  looked  at  it 
then,  I  was  going  into  these  new  four  years  with 
a  tremendous  handicap  scored  against  me.  It 
seemed  so  unfair:  I  cared  so  little  for  Jewish 
things,  yet  I  would  have  to  be  identified  with 
them  throughout  my  entire  course.  I  had 
learned,  by  now,  that  I  could  not  escape  them. 

I  went  into  college  with  a  deeper  sense  of  the 
injustice  of  it  all  than  I  had  ever  had.  I  was 
going  with  the  feeling  that,  come  what  may, 
I  should  have  to  bow  before  the  inevitable  stigma 
of  my  race — And  yet,  I  hoped  so  yearningly  that 
it  would  be  otherwise.  I  hoped — and  dreamed 
— and  laughed  at  my  dreams,  and  told  my- 
self that  college  men  were  only  boys,  after  all: 
boys  as  bigoted,  as  cruel  in  their  prejudices  as 


FRESHMAN  YEAR  69 

any  that  I  had  met  at  high  school  or  military 
academy. 

And  perhaps  I  was  justified  in  this  last  opin- 
ion. For,  when  I  appeared  on  the  campus  the 
next  morning,  headed  for  the  dean's  office  to 
file  my  registration,  I  was  met  by  a  ratty,  little 
sophomore  who  made  me  buy  a  second-hand 
freshman  cap  from  him  at  four  times  its  original 
value. 

And  when  he  had  my  money  in  his  pocket,  and 
was  a  safe  distance  across  the  green  from  me, 
be  began  to  laugh  and  shout : 

"Oi,  oi !  oi,  oi !" 

So  that  this  was  my  introduction  into  col- 
lege life. 


vm 

WITHIN  THE  GATES 

THIS  initial  experience  did  not  frighten  me. 
I  came  up  to  the  first  day  of  college  in  the  firm 
and  joyous  belief  that  here,  if  anywhere,  that 
old  bugbear  of  my  past  school  days  would  be 
absent.  I  came  into  sight  of  buildings  that 
were  new  to  me,  and  oh,  how  stately  to  my  fresh- 
man eyes!  I  came  across  a  campus  that  was 
golden  with  the  autumn  grass,  where  red  leaves 
filtered  down  from  old  elms,  and  where,  from 
heights,  I  caught  glimpses  of  the  university's 
private  parks,  still  green  and  soft,  and  of  the 
river  beyond — and  of  the  clean  flanks  of  white 
stone  buildings  and  marble  colonnades,  half 
hidden  in  the  trees.  It  was  all  so  beautiful.  It 
was  the  promised  land  and  I  was  within  its 
gates. 

The  giddy  knowledge  of  it  buoyed  me  up  and 
sent  me  across  the  campus  humming  to  myself 
one  of  the  alma  mater  songs  which  I  had  so 
religiously  learned  from  that  "Freshman  Bible." 
I  was  on  my  way  to  my  first  class.  Directly 
ahead  of  me  was  the  broad,  lofty  door  of  the 

70 


WITHIN  THE  GATES  71 

recitation  building  and,  a  little  to  the  left,  a 
fountain's  water  spilled  itself  singingly  over  in- 
to a  shallow  marble  basin. 

Suddenly  a  trio  of  sophomores  bounded  out 
from  behind  a  clump  of  bushes.  They  came  about 
me  in  a  whooping  circle,  took  me  by  the  head 
and  feet  and  tossed  me  into  the  fountain. 

I  clambered  out,  dripping,  spluttering,  but — 
be  it  said  to  my  credit — still  smiling.  I  had 
heard  that  this  was  the  customary  hazing  which 
all  freshmen  must  endure — and  I  knew  enough 
to  take  it  with  as  good  a  grace  as  they  gave  it. 

I  started  on  my  way  to  the  recitation  hall 
again,  my  clothes  leaving  a  trickling  line  behind 
me  on  the  walk.  But  they  pulled  me  back  and 
thumped  me  into  the  water  again.  It  happened 
a  third  time  before  they  let  me  go.  And  then 
one  of  them — a  big,  stocky  fellow  who  wore  a 
thick,  rolling  sweater  on  which  the  college  letter 
was  emblazoned — laughed  heartily  and  thwacked 
me  on  the  back  and  roared  that  I  was  a  good 
kid,  even  for  a  Jew! 

The  kindness  of  his  remark  was  perhaps  deeply 
meant.  I've  no  doubt,  he  thought  to  be  pay- 
ing me  a  compliment — but  I  went  away,  wetter 
than  ever,  fast  contracting  a  cold — and  with  a 
lump  in  my  throat  for  which  the  cold  was  not  at 
all  responsible. 

In  the  class  room  I  found  a  number  of  my 


72  THE  SEVEN-BRANCHED  CANDLESTICK 

new  classmates  in  quite  as  damp  a  condition 
as  L  I  was  glad  to  be  among  them,  to  know 
that  I  had  not  been  singled  out — and,  being 
miserable,  enjoyed  their  company.  The  instruc- 
tor seemed  to  be  making  a  point  of  paying  no 
attention  to  our  wetness.  It  made  me  wonder 
how  the  faculty  felt  about  hazing.  Evidently  they 
shut  their  eyes  to  it. 

The  class  was  soon  over,  since  we  were  only 
kept  for  a  preliminary  explanation  of  the  course 
and  a  few  words  of  supercilious  greeting  on 
behalf  of  the  young  instructor.  We  came  out 
upon  the  campus  again,  locked  arm  in  wet  arm, 
paradoxically  proud  of  what  we  had  suffered. 

But  some  more  sophomores  were  waiting  for 
us.  We  had  to  go  into  the  fountain  over  and 
over  again.  My  own  personal  score  was  nine 
times.  Nor  did  my  good  nature — kept  at  what 
a  cost! — serve  to  bring  me  any  leniency. 

In  fact  it  was  only  when  I  showed  a  trace  of 
anger  that  the  sophomores  finally  released  me 
and  took  me  over  to  the  gymnasium  to  give 
me  a  sweater  and  a  pair  of  old  pants,  much  too 
big  for  me,  to  wear  until  my  other  suit  was  dry. 

I  went  home  from  that  first  day  jubilant,  ex- 
cited, sure  of  my  coming  four  years.  I  had 
proven  to  myself  and  to  all  these  others  that 
I  was  ready  to  take  a  joke,  to  share  it  and  enjoy 
it  even  when  it  was  "on  me."  I  had  come  out 


WITHIN  THE  GATES  73 

of  it  all  with  a  tame  but  conclusive  triumph  of 
patience  and  good  nature. 

I  told  my  aunt  of  what  had  happened,  when 
we  sat  down  to  dinner.  She  was  shocked  at 
the  recital.  She  wanted  to  know  what  sort  of 
boys  these  sophomores  were — were  they  of  good 
family  and  all  that?  Otherwise,  if  they  were 
ruffians,  common  street  boys — she  was  going  to 
write  a  letter  of  complaint  to  the  Dean  of  the  uni- 
versity. I  had  a  hard  time  restraining  her  from 
it:  I  only  did  succeed  by  maintaining  stoutly 
that  hazing  was  part  of  the  social  scheme,  and 
was  indulged  in  only  by  ''boys  of  the  best  fam- 
ilies!" 

The  next  morning,  when  I  had  traveled  up- 
town to  the  college  site,  I  was  met  by  more  than 
one  sophomore  and  upper  classman  who  gave 
me  a  broad  smile  or  a  humorous  wink.  The 
story  of  my  dousings  had  probably  gone  the 
rounds  of  the  campus. 

That  night  there  was  to  be  a  reception  given 
to  the  freshman  class  by  the  college  Y.  M.  C.  A. 
I  had  arranged  with  Aunt  Selina  that  I  would 
not  be  home  until  late. 

There  was  a  baseball  game  between  the  two 
classes  in  the  afternoon.  The  sophomores  won, 
of  course — as  I  believe  they  almost  always  do  in 
that  first  game.  But  after  that  there  was  a  class 
rush  around  the  flag  pole.  I  was  light  enough 


74  THE  SEVEN-BRANCHED  CANDLESTICK 

to  climb  up,  stockinged-feet,  upon  the  shoulders 
of  some  of  the  taller  classmates.  I  managed, 
somehow  or  other,  to  reach  that  silly  little  flag 
and  to  tear  it  down,  and  then  to  dive  down  into 
the  twisting,  jammed  crowd  below  me,  hugging 
the  rag  to  my  breast  in  bulwarked  hiding.  And 
when  the  whistle  blew  I  was  still  in  possession 
of  it. 

Popularity  is  a  heady  wine — and  I  had  my 
fill  of  it  that  day  and  evening.  I — little  I — 
had  won  the  class  rush  for  the  freshmen.  Every- 
body seemed  to  know  my  name,  to  recognize  me, 
to  want  to  speak  to  me.  At  the  reception,  later 
on,  I  was  surrounded  by  a  great  group  of  fresh- 
men too  shy  to  stand  by  themselves.  Under 
ordinary  circumstances,  of  course,  I  should  have 
been  more  shy  than  any  of  them — but  these  were 
not  ordinary  circumstances.  I  was  a  suddenly 
awakened  hero,  a  wolf  who  had  thrown  off  his 
meek  lamb's  outfit. 

As  I  was  leaving  for  home,  full  of  ice  cream, 
punch  and  much  self-conceit,  a  junior  came  to- 
ward me  hesitatingly.  He  seemed  to  be  near- 
sighted, for  he  groped  rather  pitifully  for  my 
sleeve,  and  thrust  his  face  close  to  mine. 

"Aren't  you  the  freshman  that  won  the  rush?" 
he  asked  me. 

I  told  Mm  promptly  that  I  was. 

"Well,  won't  you  come  around  for  lunch  to- 


WITHIN  THE  GATES  76 

morrow  at  our  fraternity  house?  We'll  be 
mighty  glad  to  have  you." 

I  had  learned  a  little  of  fraternities  at  school. 
They  had  not  amounted  to  anything  there;  but 
I  knew  that  college  fraternities  were  different 
— were  big,  powerful  organizations  which  could 
make  or  break  a  man's  college  career.  My  aunt 
had  spoken  to  me  of  fraternities,  too ;  she  wanted 
me  to  join  one  which  should  give  me — and  her 
— a  deal  of  social  prestige.  And  I,  hungering 
for  new  experiences  and — as  every  boy  does — 
for  things  that  are  mysterious  and  secretive, 
wanted,  too,  the  distinction  and  glory  of  mak- 
ing a  fraternity.  It  seemed  to  my  freshman 
mind  the  most  important  thing  upon  the  hori- 
zon. 

And  so,  when  this  upper  classman  invited  me 
to  luncheon,  my  heart  bounded  high  with  expec- 
tation. I  knew  from  other  college  men  that  an 
invitation  to  lunch  was  but  the  beginning  of 
the  usual  system  of  "rushing"  a  prospective 
member:  the  preliminary  skirmish  of  festivities 
which  would  prelude  the  final  invitation  to  join 
the  fraternity.  And  I  was  going  to  lunch  at  one 
of  the  most  influential  and  exclusive  of  the  uni- 
versity's fraternities. 

It  is  needless  to  say,  I  was  dressed  in  my  Sun- 
day-best the  next  morning.  And,  after  my  11 
o'clock  recitation,  I  hurried  out  to  find  the  upper 


76  THE  SEVEN-BRANCHED  CANDLESTICK 

classman  waiting  for  me  by  the  side  of  the  foun- 
tain which  had  been  the  scene  of  my  yesterday's 
wetting.  I  smiled  indulgently  at  the  thought 
of  it.  How  changed  everything  was  since  then! 
The  upper  classman  waited  for  me  to  come  up 
to  him.  I  saw  that  he  did  not  recognize  me  at 
once,  and  a  tremor  of  suspicion  came  over  me. 
What  if  it  were  all  a  hoax — another  bit  of  haz- 
ing? 

He  was  immensely  cordial;  took  me  by  the 
arm  and  marched  me  across  the  campus,  down 
a  side  street  and  into  the  palatial,  pillared  house 
of  his  fraternity.  On  the  way,  his  genial  face 
full  of  a  stupid,  expansive  smile,  and  his  near- 
sighted eyes  twinkling  vacantly,  he  told  me  of 
the  men  I  should  meet. 

Inside,  in  the  magnificent  hall,  with  its 
weathered  oak  beams  and  mission  furniture  and 
bronze  plaques  upon  the  tapestried  walls,  I  met  a 
host  of  good-looking,  well-dressed  men.  There 
was  evidently  a  "rushing  committee"  of  upper 
classmen,  who  took  me  about  and  introduced  me 
to  all  the  others.  There  were  one  or  two  fresh- 
men, too,  whom  I  recognized;  and  these  were 
wearing  in  their  lapels  a  strange,  gleaming  little 
button.  I  was  to  learn  later  than  this  was  the 
"pledge  button"  which  announced  that  these  men 
had  been  offered  membership  to  the  fraternity 
and  had  accepted  it. 


WITHIN  THE  GATES  77 

When  we  went  into  luncheon  the  near-sighted 
junior  sat  me  next  to  him.  He  seemed  tremend- 
ously embarrassed.  Once  or  twice  he  leaned  over 
to  whisper  to  other  men;  then  he  would  steal 
a  glance  at  me  and  blush  a  brick  red,  his  inef- 
ficient eyes  puckering  to  squint  closely. 

The  other  men,  for  the  most  part,  disregarded 
me.  A  classmate — one  of  the  pledged  freshmen 
— spoke  to  me  now  and  then,  but  loftily  and  as 
if  it  were  an  effort  of  hospitality. 

As  I  felt  the  coldness  increase,  I  grew  glum 
and  silent.  My  new-found  confidence  oozed  out 
into  bewilderment.  What  had  I  done?  What 
had  I  said  to  insult  them  all,  to  hurt  my  chances 
of  election  to  their  midst?  I  could  not  figure 
it  out. 

They  were  courteous  enough.  They  were  what 
they  claimed  to  be:  a  crowd  of  young  gentlemen. 
But  I  could  sense,  electric  in  the  air,  the  dis- 
approval and  amusement  which  they  felt. 

And  after  lunch  was  over,  I  did  not  join  the 
others  in  the  big,  leather-walled  smoking  room. 
I  made  a  mumbled  apology  and  went.  They 
accepted  it  blandly,  smiling,  smirking  a  little, 
and  let  me  go. 

I  had  just  gone  down  the  steps  and  towards 
the  campus  when  the  near-sighted  junior  came 
after  me,  redder  than  ever  of  face,  his  eyes, 
blinking  very  hard.  He  hurried  up  behind  ine 

and  put  his  hand  on  my  shoulder. 


78     THE  SEVEN-BRANCHED  CANDLESTICK 

"See  here,  'fresh,' "  he  said  thickly,  "I  owe 
you  an  explanation.  I  don't  want  the  other 
fellows  to  see  me  giving  it  to  you.  Come  on, 
walk  along  with  me." 

At  the  corner,  out  of  range  of  the  windows 
of  his  fraternity  house,  he  began  his  hurried, 
jumbling  speech. 

"I  could  see,"  he  said,  "how  uncomfortable 
they  made  you.  They  tried  to  be  decent,  honest- 
ly they  did.  But  they — they've  never  had — never 
had  to  entertain  a — one  of  your  sort  before, 
don't  you  see?  We — we  don't  ever  take — well, 
it's  all  my  fault  I'm  so  darn  near-sighted  that 
I  didn't  realize.  I  couldn't  see — I  didn't 
know — " 

He  could  not  go  on,  for  his  dull,  honest  face 
was  fearfully  distressed. 

"What  didn't  you  know?"  I  demanded. 

"That  you  were — now,  don't  get  sore,  because 
I  like  Jews  as  much  as  any  folks — and  I  can't 
see  why  we  don't  take  them  in  our  fraternity. 
Only—" 

"Only  you  didn't  realize  I  was  a  Jew,"  I  said 
hotly. 

"That's  ii^-I'm  so  near-sighted  that  I—" 

I  did  not  wait  for  his  stammered  finish.  I 
went  swiftly  away  and  home,  my  heart  well- 
nigh  bursting. 


IX 
MY  AUNT  AND  I 

"IT  isn't  true,"  snapped  my  aunt,  when  I  told 
her  of  what  had  happened  at  .the  fraternity 
house.  "I  can't  imagine  that  young  gentlemen 
of  such  an  aristocratic  set  could  act  so  meanly. 
You  must  have  done  something  wrong.  You 
must  have  insulted  them  personally,  yourself. 
I'll  wager,  you're  to  blame — not  they." 

I  was  too  sickened  by  it  all  to  protest.  I 
repeated  to  her  slowly  the  words  of  apology 
which  the  near-sighted  junior  had  spoken  to 
me  at  our  parting,  and,  when  they  did  not  con- 
vince her,  gave  up  the  task  and  went  to  bed 
without  any  supper.  I  was  old  enough  to  have 
cured  myself  of  the  habit  of  tears — though,  as 
a  matter  of  fact,  no  men  ever  do  quite  want 
to  cure  themselves  of  it — but  I  remember  that 
my  pillow  was  damp  the  next  morning,  and  the 
grey,  foggy  sky,  through  the  window,  seemed 
in  sad  tune  with  my  spirits. 

I  dressed  and  went  up  to  college,  fearful  to 
meet  any  of  that  fraternity  crowd  again,  wonder- 
ing how  they  would  act  towards  me,  trying  to 

79 


80  THE  SEVEN-BRANCHED  CANDLESTICK 

be  indignant,  but  succeeding  only  in  a  shriveled 
self-debasement.  Because  I  was  a  Jew — that 
was  their  one  and  only  reason  for  showing  me 
the  door  in  so  polite  and  gentlemanly  a  fashion. 

But  when,  at  the  chapel  entrance,  I  bumped 
into  one  of  the  pledged  freshmen,  he  simply  did 
not  pay  any  attention  to  me  at  all.  He  appeared 
not  to  know  me,  murmured  an  unhurried  and 
general,  "Excuse  me,"  and  went  on.  A  few 
yards  further  on,  I  met  with  one  of  the  seniors 
at  whose  fraternity  table  I  had  been  sitting  the 
noon  before.  He  bowed  hastily  and  walked 
past. 

Neither  one  nor  the  other  of  them  seemed  to 
be  much  perturbed  by  the  meeting,  nor  to  notice 
my  own  discomfiture.  I  could  not  imagine  that 
such  incidents  as  mine  of  yesterday  were  com- 
mon occurences  and  yet  they  seemed  to  take 
it  so  much  as  a  matter  of  course. 

I  fought  with  my  pride  in  the  matter  for  a 
long  while.  Then,  at  the  end  of  a  noon-time 
recitation,  I  spoke  of  it  to  a  freshman  with 
whom  I  had  struck  up  a  friendship  two  days 
old.  The  friendship  ended  there.  He  seemed 
(Scandalized  at  my  mentioning  fraternities  at  all : 
it  was  a  subject  far  too  sacred  for  discussion, 
evidently.  He  merely  snapped  back  stiffly  that 
he  expected  to  be  pledged  to  another  fraternity 
sometime  during  the  day,  and  that  he  did  not 


MY  AUNT  AND  I  81 

care  to  hurt  his  chances  by  talking  too  freely. 
It  made  me  see  the  secretiveness  of  the  system 
from  another  angle. 

I  received  no  more  invitations  to  lunch.  I 
contented  myself  henceforth  with  a  humble 
sandwich  and  glass  of  milk  at  the  "Commons" 
eating  hall.  It  was  galling  to  see  classmates 
being  escorted  across  the  campus  to  the  fra- 
ternity houses,  to 'overhear  them  accepting  in- 
vitations to  theater  in  the  evening,  to  watch  the 
process  of  their  conversion  to  this  fraternity 
or  that  one.  It  was  like  being  in  a  bustling 
crowd  with  hands  tied  and  mouth  gagged — and 
the  sullen  rage  of  a  disappointed  boyhood 
in  my  heart. 

Aunt  Selina  did  not  know  how  to  comfort 
me.  I  think  she  tried  to,  in  her  superfluous 
way.  At  first  she  wanted  to  make  light  of 
the  fraternities,  gibing  at  them  whenever  op- 
portunity arose  at  the  dinner  table.  But  she 
did  not  feel  lightly  about  it — and  her  disap- 
pointment was  too  great  to  be  laughed  away. 
She  still  had  a  dim  suspicion  that  I  had  made 
some  fearful  misstep — had  brought  the  failure 
on  myself.  And  so,  after  a.  while,  she  kept 
silent  on  the  subject,  and  would  not  speak  of  it 
at  all.  But  her  silence  was  more  harshly  elo- 
quent than  all  her  foolish  talk  had  been. 

It  seems  that  Paul  Fleming,  a  nephew  of  Mrs. 


82  THE  SEVEN-BRANCHED  CANDLESTICK 

Fleming-Cohen,  had  belonged  to  a  fraternity  at 
college;  and  Mrs.  Fleming-Cohen  was  always 
alluding  to  it,  as  if  it  gave  her  a  social  security 
which  my  own  aunt  could  never  attain.  Aunt 
Selina  wanted  me  to  make  a  fraternity  to  prove 
to  Mrs.  Fleming-Cohen  how  easy  a  matter  it 
was.  She  had  implied  as  much,  when  we  had 
first  come  back  from  the  country. 

Our  life  together  as  days  went  by,  seemed 
to  be  going  peacefully  and  smoothly  in- 
to some  sort  of  a  makeshift  groove.  I  knew  well 
enough  that  she  and  I  would  never  grow  to  be 
genuinely  fond  of  each  other.  Our  aims  were 
different ;  and  the  beginning  of  college  had  given 
me  some  inkling  of  what  my  aims  were  going 
to  be.  I  was  only  eighteen,  to  be  sure;  but  I 
was  older,  more  settled  than  most  youths  of 
twenty  or  more.  I  blamed  myself  a  little  for 
my  impatience  with  her,  for  my  hasty  conclu- 
sions concerning  those  friends  of  hers  who  came 
up  from  Washington  square  to  eat  her  meals 
and  to  fill  her  with  senseless  chatter  of  art  and 
literature.  And  yet  I  could  not  help  loathing 
them.  Whenever  they  came  to  dinner,  I  made 
an  excuse  of  studying  at  the  house  of  another 
freshman  for  the  evening,  and  thus  escaped 
them. 

The  first  month  of  college  was  not  yet  over 
when  I  went,  on  one  of  those  evenings,  to  hear 


MY  AUNT  AND  I  83 

an  extra-curriculum  lecture  on  the  social  duties 
of  a  college  man.  I  had  expected  to  hear  a  fop 
of  some  sort  deliver  dicta  on  the  proper  angle 
of  holding  a  fork  or  inside  information  as  to 
the  most  aristocratic  set  in  college.  It  was  that 
word  social  that  misled  me. 

Instead,  the  speaker  was  a  rough,  business- 
like man,  rather  shabbily  dressed,  who  heaped 
fiery  anathema  upon  the  idle  rich.  And  he  spoke 
of  the  true  social  duties.  He  spoke  mainly — be- 
cause he  knew  most  about  it — concerning  the 
opportunities  for  college  men  in  settlement  work. 

I  had  never  heard  of  settlement  work  before. 
It  was  a  new  thing  to  me — and  perhaps  it  was 
its  newness  that  at  first  attracted  me  so  strongly. 
I  waited  until  the  end  of  the  lecture,  and  joined 
a  little  group  of  listeners  who  gathered  around 
the  man  with  eager  questions.  I  had  a  few  of 
my  own  to  ask,  too — and  he  answered  mine  as  he 
answered  all  of  them,  simply,  kindly,  directly. 

The  speaker  was  Lawrence  Richards,  director 
of  one  of  the  largest  settlement  societies  in  New 
York.  There  was  something  powerful,  magnet- 
ically enthusiastic  about  him — and  his  face  was 
tremendously  keen  and  happy. 

He  was  gathering  up  his  papers  to  depart 
when  he  chanced  to  remark  to  me: 

"See  here,  will  you  come  over  to  my  fraternity 
house  with  me  and  talk  things  over?  We  can  sit 


84  THE  SEVEN-BRANCHED  CANDLESTICK 

in  the  library,  and  I'll  tell  you  lots  more  that 
I  know  will  interest  you.  We'll  be  comfortable 
— and  fairly  alone." 

Mr.  Kichards,  it  seems,  had  gone  to  my  uni- 
versity ten  years  ago.  I  asked  him  the  name  of 
the  fraternity.  When  he  told  me  it,  I  shook  my 
head,  No. 

It  was  the  house  at  which  I  had  had  that 
memorable  luncheon — and  whither  I  was  not  to 
be  invited  any  more. 

"Why  not?"  he  persisted.  "I  want  you  down 
in  my  settlement.  I  want  to  show  you  how  you 
can  be  of  help  to  us.  Won't  you  come  over  to 
the  fraternity  house?"  And  when  I  again  de- 
clined, he  insisted  on  knowing  why. 

But  I  did  not  tell  him.  "Perhaps  some  of  the 
members  of  your  active  chapter  will  tell  you," 
I  replied,  "but  I  will  not." 

He  looked  at  me  sharply,  and  his  face  grew 
grim.  "I  see,"  he  said  warmly.  "The  nasty  little 
cads.  Well,  it's  harder  for  me  to  excuse  them 
than  it  is  for  you — and  I'm  their  sworn  brother !" 

So  I  made  an  appointment  to  come  down  to 
the  settlement,  instead,  and  to  take  supper  with 
him  there  some  evening.  He  wanted  to  show 
me  the  splendid  organization  of  things  there: 
the  club  rooms,  the  dance  hall,  the  gymnasium 
and  reading  room.  He  wanted  to  introduce  me 
to  the  resident  leaders.  He  wanted  to  persuade 


MY  AUNT  AND  I  85 

me  to  become  a  leader,  myself:  to  attend  one 
of  the  clubs  of  young  boys,  to  join  with,  them  in 
their  meetings,  their  debates,  their  entertain- 
ments and  studies,  to  help  them  by  friendliness 
and  example. 

"I  suppose,"  he  said,  when  he  left  me  at  a 
subway  kiosk,  "that  you  feel  mighty  sorry  that 
you  didn't  make  a  fraternity,  don't  you?  Well, 
I'm  offering  you  a  membership  in  a  bigger  and 
better  one  than  ever  had  a  chapter  in  a  college 
— the  brotherhood  of  humanity.  You'll  be  proud 
of  it,  little  fellow,  if  you'll  join.  So  come  along 
down  and  let  us  'rush'  you!" 

It  was  so  good-natured  a  joke  that  I  could 
not  resent  it.  I  had  had  my  eyes  opened,  to- 
night, by  some  of  the  things  that  Mr.  Eichards 
had  told  me.  I  had  learned  that  the  city  has 
its  poor,  its  sick  and  wicked,  its  boys  and  girls 
embroiled  in  wrong  environments,  its  lonely  and 
unambitious,  who  must  be  comraded  and  wak- 
ened. And  I  had  learned  that  I,  young  as  I 
was,  was  able  to  help,  to  foster,  to  do  good  for 
such  as  these. 

On  the  way  home,  I  passed  a  street  corner 
where  boys  a  few  years  younger  than  myself  were 
loitering  in  obscene  play.  A  little  further  on 
I  came  to  a  girl,  not  more  than  fifteen  or  sixteen, 
who  was  being  followed  by  some  toughs.  She 
was  a  Jewish  girl,  too,  I  noticed —  and  she  was 


86     THE  SEVEN-BRANCHED  CANDLESTICK 

crying  with,  fright.     I  put  her  on  a  street  car 
to  get  her  out  of  harm's  way. 

It  was  of  just  such  as  these,  both  boys  and  girls, 
that  Mr.  Richards  had  spoken  this  evening.  Per- 
haps he  was  right — and  what  a  noble  thing  to 
be  able  to  join  in  the  help  and  companionship 
which  the  settlement  could  give  them.  I  resolved 
to  go  down  to  him  the  very  next  evening. 

When  I  reached  home,  Aunt  Selina  was  just 
getting  ready  for  bed.  She  came  out  into  the 
hall  in  a  pink  silk  dressing-gown,  all  frills  and 
ruffles,  and  asked  me  complainingly  where  I  had 
been  so  long.  She  was  angry  at  my  abrupt  de- 
parture when  her  evening's  guests  arrived. 

"I  have  been  to  hear  a  lecture  delivered  by 
a  Mr.  Lawrence  Richards,"  I  told  her. 

"Oh !    That  settlement  man?"  she  asked. 

"Yes." 

She  almost  snorted.  "I  met  him  once  at  a 
meeting  of  our  Ladies'  Auxiliary.  He  is  such 
a  plain,  undistinguished  fellow!" 

I  hesitated  a  moment.  "Aunt  Selina,"  I  said, 
"I  am  going  down  tomorrow  night  to  have  sup- 
per with  him.  He  wants  me  to  become  a  leader 
in  one  of  the  settlement  clubs.  It  would  take 
only  one  night  a  week,  he  says " 

My  aunt  was  so  affected  by  the  announcement 
that  I  had  to  run  and  fetch  her  smelling  salts. 
"Oh,  oh,  down  into  that  awful  tenement  house 


MY  AUNT  AND  I  87 

district?  Down  among  those  dreadful  people? 
Indeed,  you  shan't  go.  If  you  do,  I  shall  never 
allow  you  to  come  back!  Think,  of  the  diseases 
you  might  spread!" 

And  she  carried  on  so  hysterically  that,  after 
a  while,  I  gave  in  and  promised  I  would  not  go 
— not  for  a  while,  anyhow. 

"Why  aren't  you  like  other  boys  of  your 
class?"  she  demanded.  "Why  aren't  you  con- 
tent to  make  the  best  of  things  and  be  satisfied 
with  the  splendid  opportunities  you  have?" 

"That's  just  what  I'm  trying  to  do,  Aunt 
Selina,"  I  told  her.  "Trying  to  make  the  best 
— the  really  best  of  everything  that  comes  into 
my  life!" 

But  she  was  unimpressed,  and  went  off  sob- 
bing to  bed. 


THE  RULES  OF  THE  GAME 

I  BECAME  rather  friendly  with  that  near-sighted 
junior.  He  was  so  genial,  good-hearted,  apolo- 
getic a  chap  that  I  could  not  harbor  any  resent- 
ment against  him  for  the  events  which  took  place 
at  his  fraternity  house.  They  were  not  Ms  fault, 
anyhow. 

His  name  was  Trevelyan,  and  he  came  from 
one  of  the  oldest  families  in  New  York;  one 
of  the  wealthiest,  too.     At  college  he  was  con- 
sidered somewhat  of  a  fool,  his  never-failing  good 
nature  giving  justification  for  the  opinion.     I 
f      don't  think  that,  since  that  first  embarrassing 
/   luncheon,  I  have^fever  seen  him  unhappy — and 
even  then  it  was  on  my  account  he  was  dis- 
contented, not  on  his  own.    And  outside  of  col- 
lege he  must  have  been  respected  with  all  the 
awe  which  New  Yorkers  accord  to  the  Sons  of 
the  American  Revolution  and  five  or  six  million 
dollars.    But  he  was  the  least  lofty,  least  snob- 
bish man  that  I  have  ever  known.    Most  of  his 
college  friends  thought  he  was  too  much  of  a 
fool  to  play  the  snob ;  I  thought  he  was  too  much 

of  a  gentleman. 

88 


THE  RULES  OF  THE  GAME  89 

He  came  to  dinner  at  my  aunt's  apartment 
after  he  had  known  me  for  about  a  month.  I 
do  not  know  who  of  us  was  the  more  proud, 
my  aunt  or  I — for  to  me  the  idea  of  having  a 
junior  and  a  member  of  one  of  the  most  powerful 
fraternities  visiting  at  my  home  was  quite  as 
much  of  a  marvel  as  my  aunt  seemed  to  feel 
it,  that  a  member  of  the  Trevelyan  family — the 
Trevelyan's  of  Fifth  avenue  and  Sixty-fourth 
street,  don't  you  know — should  be  seated  at  her 
table  and  giving  gracious  attention  to  her  gos- 
sipy conversation.  For  a  whole  week  after  his 
visit  Aunt  Selina  made  a  great  point  of  it — 
and  of  telling  her  friends  of  it.  The  distinction 
of  having  a  Trevelyan  to  dinner  was  a  great 
triumph  over  Mrs.  Fleming- Cohen,  who  had  once 
entertained  a  Jewish  mining  magnate  from  the 
Far  West — but  who  had  never  attained  anything 
like  a  Trevelyan. 

I  think  Trevelyan  began  at  first  feeling  very 
much  ashamed  and  sorry;  he  was  just  trying  to 
square  up  matters  with  his  own  conscience.  He 
had  a  room  in  one  of  the  college  dormitories. 
He  seldom  used  it,  but  when  he  did  he  would  in- 
vite me  to  stay  up  there  with  him  and  to  sit 
until  the  wee,  quiet  hours,  talking  over  our  briar 
pipes,  interspacing  the  layers  of  blue  smoke  with 
argument  and  stirring  plans.  Trevelyan  had 
great  hopes  for  me.  He  had  discovered  that 
I  was  a  runner. 


90  THE  SEVEN-BRANCHED  CANDLESTICK 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  I  had  done  a  little  practic- 
ing with,  the  track  team  at  military  school.  I 
had  never  amounted  to  much,  had  never  stood 
out  tremendously  in  meets.  I  liked  to  run,  I 
liked  the  healthy  trim  that  the  exercise  gave  me, 
but  I'm  afraid  I  never  took  it  very  seriously. 

But  Trevelyan  saw  things  differently.  Here 
was  my  great  chance.  Never  mind  the  college 
papers,  the  literary  societies  and  all  that  tame 
coterie  of  lesser  institutions.  If  I  made  the  track 
team  I  would  be  a  college  hero — and,  after  see- 
ing me  capture  the  flag  in  the  class  rush,  he 
had  no  doubt  of  my  vim  and  nerve.  I  must 
make  the  track  team.  (Trevelyan,  by  the  way, 
was  assistant  manager  of  the  track  organiza- 
tion. ) 

So,  soon  enough,  I  was  out  on  the  windy  field 
in  my  old  school  track-clothes,  racing  around 
and  around  with  a  sturdy  intention  of  proving 
myself  worthy  of  Trevelyan's  friendship.  That 
was  my  chief  reason  for  "coming  out  for  track," 
after  all. 

The  coach,  a  taciturn,  gray  old  fellow,  whose 
muscles  were  running  too  fat  and  whose  temper 
had  frayed  out  in  the  years  of  snarling  at  pros- 
pective champions,  paid  little  attention  to  me 
until  the  week  before  the  freshman-sophomore 
track  meet.  Then  he  tried  me  out  at  a  44-yard 
run.  That  was  what  I  had  been  used  to  doing 


THE  RULES  OF  THE  GAME  91 

at  school.  There  was  only  one  man  in  the  fresh- 
man class  who  could  beat  me  in  this  run  for  cer- 
tain. There  was  no  reason,  said  Trevelyan,  why  I 
should  not  be  absolutely  sure  of  my  place  on 
the  class  team. 

Three  days  before  the  meet  the  other  "44" 
man  sprained  his  knee.  He  was  out  of  the 
race  for  the  time  being.  There  was  no  doubt 
now  that  I  would  be  put  in.  So  said  Trevelyan, 
and  so,  in  surly,  semi-official  fashion,  said  the 
coach. 

But  we  had  not  counted  on  the  captain  of  the 
freshman  track  team.  This  was  one  of  my  class- 
mates, chosen  from  among  the  many  candidates 
by  the  captain  of  the  Varsity  team.  This  fresh- 
man leader  I  did  not  know  personally.  I  had 
met  him  almost  every  day  on  the  field,  but  he 
had  never  recognized  me.  His  track  shirt  bore 
the  monogram  of  a  noted  preparatory  school; 
and  it  was  echoed  that  he  was  the  handsomest 
man  in  the  class.  He  was  most  certainly  the 
most  snobbish.  He  was  thrown  into  contact 
with  me  in  various  organizations  during  our 
four  years.  I  do  not  remember  his  ever  having 
bowed  to  me.  In  his  college  world  I,  and  such 
as  I,  did  not  exist. 

At  any  rate,  the  college  newspaper  came  out 
one  noon  to  announce  the  members  of  the  fresh- 
man track  team,  as  chosen  by  its  captain.  My 
name  was  not  among  them. 


92  THE  SEVEN-BRANCHED  CANDLESTICK 

In  vain  did  Trevelyan  protest  to  the  'varsity 
/'captain,  to  the  coach — I  even  think  he  took  the 
'  \  matter  as  high  as  a  meeting  of  the  faculty  ath- 
letic advisory  committee.  Nothing  could  be 
done.  The  'varsity  captain  shrugged  his  shoul- 
ders, the  old  coach  growled  but  said  nothing, 
the  faculty  advisers  kept  away  from  the  topic 
as  if  it  were  beneath  their  tutelary  notice.  And 
the  freshman-sophomore  track  meet  was  held 
with  me  on  the  side-lines,  among  the  spectators. 
I  have  no  reason  to  gloat  over  it,  but  it  is  a 
rather  amusing  point  that  we  lost  the  entire 
meet  through  losing  the  four-forty  yard  run. 

"It's  a  dirty  shame,"  said  Trevelyan,  his 
squinting  eyes  full  of  rue  and  anger.  "I  knew 
that  sort  of  thing  went  on  in  the  'varsity  circle 
— but  I  didn't  think  they'd  carry  it  down  into 
the  class  teams.  It's  all  college  politics — and 
college  politics-  are  the  meanest,  most  vindictive 
intrigue  on  earth." 

I  didn't  ask  him  for  a  further  explanation, 
and  I  suppose-  he  felt  it  would  be  kinder  not 
to  make  one.  But  I  knew  well  enough  to  what 
he  referred — and  why  there  had  been  this  sud- 
den, underhanded  discrimination.  I  made  up 
my  mind  to  forget  the  whole  episode.  I  had  not 
been  so  tremendously  anxious  to  make  the  track 
team  that  I  would  let  the  disappointment  of 
it  rankle  and  grow  and  ruin  my  year's  fun.  I 


THE  RULES  OF  THE  GAME  93 

put  it  all  behind  me,  resolving  to  take  my  en- 
thusiasm into  some  other  of  the  college  activities 
where  it  would  be  more  sincerely  appreciated. 

I  consulted  Trevelyan  about  it.  He  suggested 
the  college  newspaper.  But  after  he  had  made 
the  suggestion,  he  began  to  stammer  and  make 
strange  protests.  I  asked  him  to  tell  me  plainly 
what  was  wrong. 

"Why,  it's  the  same  with  that  as  with  the  track 
team.  The  editor-in-chief  of  the  paper  is  in 
my  'crowd.'  I'll  speak  to  him —  and  save  you 
any  trouble.  If  he  says  yes,  then  you  go  out  and 
win  a  place  on  the  board  of  editors.  But  if  he 
says  no,  I  want  you  to  promise  me  that  you  won't 
subject  yourself  to  any  more  of  this  puppy-dog 
prejudice." 

I  did  promise.  And  two  days  later  I  received 
a  postcard  from  Trevelyan,  telling  me  that  it 
would  hardly  be  worth  my  while  to  try  for  the 
college  paper.  He  added,  in  the  large,  unruly 
handwriting  which  his  near-sightedness  made 
necessary : 

"You  may  go  on  breathing,  however,  if  you 
don't  make  a  noise  at  it." 

He  supplemented  this,  a  few  nights  later,  when 
he  and  I  were  at  our  old  places  in  his  room. 
He  threw  down  his  pipe  in  the  midst  of  talking 
about  something  carefully  unimportant,  and  sat 
up  with  a  laughably  angry  face. 


94  THE  SEVEN-BRANCHED  CANDLESTICK 

"See  here,  'fresh,' "  lie  bawled  out,  "you're 
getting  the  rottenest  deal  I  ever  saw.  You  know 
why —  so  do  I.  And  we're  going  to  show  them 
a  thing  or  two.  We're  going  to  buck  up  against 
the  strongest  thing  in  the  world — and  that  thing 
is  prejudice.  We're  going  to  beat  it,  too.  Do 
you  understand?  Were  going  to  beat  it  out! 
Smash  it  to  pieces !" 

Yes,  I  understood,  I  said.  I  understood  it 
all  only  too  well.  So  well,  indeed,  that  I  knew 
there  was  no  use  trying  to  fight.  I  knew  that 
prejudice  of  race  and  religion  was  the  strongest 
shield  of  the  ignorant  and  mean,  that  neither  he 
nor  I  could  fight  it  fairly — and  that,  if  he  came 
into  the  fight  by  my  side,  he  would  ruin  his 
own  chances  of  being  one  of  the  biggest  men 
in  the  college  world  when  his  senior  year  ar- 
rived. 

"A  lot  I  care  for  being  a  big  man  in  a  place 
of  little  thoughts,"  he  snapped  back  at  me.  "I'm 
ready  to  take  the  consequences,  now  and  forever 
after." 

"Have  you  thought  of  what  your  fraternity 
brothers  might  say  about  it?"  I  asked  him. 

"I  don't  care — I  don't— well,  if  they — ."  His 
voice  died  away  in  perplexity.  I  had  hit  upon 
his  weak  spot.  He  was  an  easy-going,  likeable 
chap ;  he  hated  a  rumpus.  If  he  made  any  sort 
of  fight  against  the  anti-Jewish  prejudice,  he 


THE  RULES  OF  THE  GAME  95 

would  have  his  whole  fraternity  against  him, 
he  would  perhaps  be  shunned  by  all  his  sworn 
brothers,  by  his  best  college  friends.  His  en- 
thusiasm became  a  little  dulled,  then  died  down 
into  a  great  good-natured  sigh. 

"I  suppose  you're  right,  'fresh,' "  he  ^admitted 
slowly.  "I'm  not  of  the  fighting  sort,  And  T 
have  my  fraternity  to  consider.  That's  the  worst 
of  belonging  to  a  fraternity."  He  took  up  his 
pipe  again  and  smoked  in  silence  for  a  while. 
"I  suppose  you  think  you'll  never  be  happy,  now 
that  you  know  you  aren't  going  to  be  in  a  fra- 
ternity. Take  my  word  for  it,  you're  ten  times 
luckier  in  having  your  freedom.  Wait  until 
you're  an  upper-classman  and  you'll  agree  with 
me." 

It  seemed  a  dreadful  sacrilege  for  him  to  be 
saying  it.  Besides,  I  thought  he  was  blaming 
his  own  lack  of  fighting  power  on  his  fraternity 
in  too  heavy  and  unjust  a  degree.  I  wasn't  any 
more  of  a  fighter  than  he — but  I  was  disap- 
pointed, somehow,  that  his  pugnacity  had  died 
out  so  readily. 

"I  can't  do  it,  'fresh,' "  he  confessed,  with  a 
grin.  "I'm  not  the  scrapper  I  thought  I  could 
be.  I  just  want  to  go  through  college  lazily, 
happily,  respectably — and  all  that.  I  wouldn't 
know  how  to  make  a  rumpus  if  I  wanted  to. 
But  listen  here."  He  pointed  his  finger  at  me 


96     THE  SEVEN-BRANCHED  CANDLESTICK 

sternly.  "If  I  were  you,  I  wouldn't  rest  until 
I  had  made  the  fight  and  won  it.  Fight  it  not 
only  for  yourself  but  for  the  hundred  other 
Jewish  fellows  in  college.  See  that  they  get 
a  square  deal.  See  that  they  don't  lose  out  on 
all  the  things  that  make  college  worth  while.  A 
Jew  is  just  as  good  as  anyone  else,  isn't  he?" 

"Yes,"  I  answered  him  only  faintly. 

'Well,  then,  go  ahead  and  prove  that  fact  to 
the  whole  college  world." 

But,  though  I  did  not  answer  him,  I  knew 
that  I  was  not  any  more  able  to  make  the  fight 
than  he.  Less  able,  perhaps,  because  I  was  more 
handicapped.  I  made  myself  a  thousand  ex- 
cuses as  I  sat  there  thinking  it  over — I  was  not 
brave  enough,  that  was  all. 

But  one  thing  my  acquaintanceship  with 
Trevelyan  did  bring  me.  He  was  a  dabbler  in 
light  verse,  and  had  been  elected  to  the  college 
funny  paper.  He  also  contributed  to  the  under- 
graduate literary  magazine  at  times — though  he 
was  a  bit  ashamed  of  being  taken  seriously.  At 
any  rate,  he  encouraged  me  to  go  into  these  two 
activities. 

Whether  or  not  it  was  due  entirely  to  his  in- 
fluence, or  whether  these  two  college  publications 
were  broader  and  less  exacting  as  to  the  ancestry 
of  contributors,  my  work  for  them  was  wel- 
comed. Before  the  year  was  over  I  had  been 


THE  RULES  OF  THE  GAME  97 

elected  an  associate  editor  of  the  funny  paper, 
and  had  four  articles  accepted  by  the  literary 
magazine — enough  to  put  me  among  the  list  of 
"probables"  for  election,  next  winter. 

At  the  same  time  I  went  through  a  successful 
trial  for  membership  in  the  college  dramatic 
association.  I  was  not  given  a  part  in  the  an- 
nual play,  however.  I  made  up  my  mind  to 
consider  this  a  just  decision,  and  that  I  had  no 
right  to  impute  it  to  anything  other  than  my 
lack  of  talent.  The  president  of  the  association, 
however,  met  me  at  lunch  hour  one  day  and 
made  some  rather  lame  remarks  about  the  em- 
barrassment to  which  the  "dramatics"  would  be 
put  if  I  were  in  the  cast. 

"Yer  see,"  he  said,  "we  go  on  an  annual  tour. 
And  we  get  entertained  a  lot,  yer  see.  And  it's 
big  social  stunts  in  every  city.  And  it's  the 
cream  of  society  wherever  we  go — so,  it'd  be 
funny  if — well  don'tcher  see?" 

"Yes,"  I  admitted,  "I  do  see.  I  see  further 
than  you  do." 

I  was  beginning  to  wonder  if  that  fight  that 
Trevelyan  planned  wouldn't  be  worth  while, 
after  all. 


XI 

A  MAN'S  WORK 

I  TALKED  to  Trevelyan,  too,  of  my  interest  in 
the  work  of  Lawrence  Richards.  Trevelyan  had 
heard  of  him  and  of  his  settlement,  and  was 
rather  at  sea  to  give  an  opinion  about  it.  He 
was  only  mildly  enthusiastic. 

"What's  the  use  of  bothering  with  things  so 
far  away  from  your  college  life?"  he  protested 
lazily.  "Of  course,  the  idea  of  being  useful  to 
people  in  need  is  splendid  and  all  that.  But 
somehow,  it  doesn't  fit  in  with  college  life." 

"Why  not?  Why  shouldn't  it?"  I  argued. 

He  waved  his  hand  as  if  to  begin  some  gen- 
eralization, but  made  no  real  reply. 

"Wait  until  you're  through  with  college  be- 
fore you  settle  down  to  manhood,"  he  said  a 
little  later.  "College  is  just  the  sport  of  kids, 
after  all." 

It  came  to  me — though  I  did  not  tell  him  so 
— of  how,  in  the  beginning,  I  had  thought  of 
college  as  a  place  of  full  manhood — and  of  the 
misgivings  I  had  had,  that  perhaps,  after  all,  col- 
lege would  be  only  another  stepping  stone  to 

08 


A  MAN'S  WORK  99 

that  manhood.  And  so  it  was:  just  a  stepping 
stone,  through  brambles  of  prickly  prejudice  and 
childish  pranks.  When  would  it  come,  that  man- 
hood? 

"You  know,  Trev,"  I  said  to  him  hesitatingly, 
"I  sometimes  feel  I  am  much  older  than  most 
fellows.  Almost  old  enough  to  do  a  man's  work." 

He  looked  at  me  and  laughed,  refusing  to  take 
me  too  soberly.  "You  are  older,"  he  admitted. 
"Only  what  do  you  call  a  man's  work?" 

I  didn't  know,  and  told  him  so.  He  seemed 
to  consider  it  a  triumph  for  his  own  argument. 

"See  here,"  he  said,  "what's  the  use  of  all  this 
stewing  about  the  slums  and  the  wretched  poor 
and  that  sort  of  thing,  if  you're  just  aching  to 
make  trouble  for  yourself?  If  you  want  man- 
hood, you'll  reach  it  ten  times  sooner  if  you'll 
slip  into  it  comfortably,  gracefully,  lying  quiet- 
ly on  your  back  and  floating— and  not  splash- 
ing too  hard.  You'll  never  get  anywhere  if  you 
insist  on  getting  there  with  a  rumpus." 

I  admired  the  studied  grace  of  his  similes, 
but  had  to  confess  that  they  did  not  impress  me 
as  true.  But,  at  the  same  time,  I  did  not  try  to 
explain  any  further  to  him  how  I  felt. 

That  did  not  end  the  questioning  for  me,  how- 
ever. I  even  broached  it  to  Aunt  Selina  once, 
and  she  threw  up  her  hands  in  despair.  I  think 
I  did  it  somewhat  with  the  idea  of  seeing  her 


100          THE  SEVEN-BRANCHED  CANDLESTICK 

do  just  that.  It  was  beginning  to  amuse  me, 
how  hopeless  she  thought  I  was. 

So  that  was  why  I  did  not  tell  her  of  my 
intention  to  go,  one  evening,  to  see  Mr.  Lawrence 
Richards  at  his  East  Side  Settlement.  But  im- 
mediately after  supper,  I  bade  my  aunt  good 
night,  and  answered  her  suspicious  query  with 
the  information  that  I  was  "bound  for  a  social 
affair."  The  answer  seemed  to  reassure  her  and 
she_gave  me  gracious  permission  to  go. 

I  took  the  subway  to  Spring  street,  walked 
across  to  the  Bowery,  and  a  few  blocks  on  the 
other  side  of  it,  came  to  the  Settlement.  It  was 
in  the  heart  of  a  noisy  crowded  section,  tower- 
ing high  above  the  shabby  buildings  like  a  great, 
clean,  shining  bulwark. 

Mr.  Richards  was  at  supper,  I  was  told.  A 
bright-eyed  little  Jewish  boy,  neatly  dressed  and 
careful  of  speech,  offered  to  show  me  the  way 
to  the  dining  room  on  the  fifth  floor. 

I  had  a  hearty  welcome  from  the  Head  Worker 
when  he  recognized  me.  He  was  disappointed 
that  I  had  already  had  my  supper ;  made  me  sit 
down  beside  him  and  introduced  me  to  all  his  as- 
sociates. They  were  mostly  young  men,  I  was 
surprised  to  find;  one  of  them  told  me  that  ho 
had  graduated  from  one  of  the  New  England 
colleges  only  the  year  before. 

Mr.  Richards  showed  me  all  about  the  place, 


A  MAN'S  WORK  101 

as  he  had  promised  he  would.  Then  he  took  me 
with  him  into  his  "den"  as  he  called  it — a  little 
room  just  off  the  gymnasium,  where  he  had  his 
desk  and  filing  cabinets  and  books.  He  sat  me 
down  opposite  him  on  a  canvas-covered  chair, 
and,  when  he  had  gone  over  some  reports  which 
needed  his  signature,  looked  up  at  me  and 
smiled. 

"Well,"  he  said,  "what's  the  trouble?" 

"Oh,  I  didn't — well,  how  did  you  know  there 
was  any  trouble?" 

The  smile  broadened.  "None  of  you  ever  come 
down  here  unless  you  are  in  trouble.  Trouble's 
a  sort  of  bait  that  lands  ambitious  youths  into 
doing  settlement  work — and  into  coming  to  me 
for  advice.  They  say  I'm  pretty  good  at  giving 
it.  Why  don't  you  try  me?" 

I  did.  I  told  him  exactly  how  I  felt:  that 
I  was  growing  impatient  of  all  the  tomfoolery 
of  college;  that  I  wanted  work  more  sure  of 
manly  results,  more  broadening,  more  full  of 
character.  Then,  too,  I  told  him  of  what  Tre- 
velyan  had  said,  and  he  laughed  at  it  merrily. 

"Trevelyan?"  he  said.  "Oh,  yes,  I  know  him. 
He  belongs  to  my  fraternity,  doesn't  he?  I've 
met  him  at  one  or  another  of  our  affairs.  A 
good  enough  fellow — a  little  too  much  money, 
and  a  little  too  easy  with  himself  in  conse- 
quence. But  he's  a  thorough  gentleman  at  heart, 
isn't  he?" 


102          THE  SEVEN-BRANCHED  CANDLESTICK 

I  almost  gasped.  He  had  summed  up  Trevel- 
yan  marvelously  well  in  those  few  words.  He 
saw  my  wonderment  and  smiled. 

"I've  only  met  him  once  or  twice,"  he  said, 
"but  I  have  the  faculty  of  knowing  men.  It's 
a  faculty  I  have  to  have  in. this  sort  of  work. 
It  depends  so  much  on  the  human  equation.  I 
meet  thousands  of  young  men  and  women  every 
year — meet  them,  talk  with  them  a  little  while, 
give  them  the  best  I  have  to  give  in  that  short 
space — and  like  to  think  that,  even  if  I  never 
see  them  again,  I've  helped  them  along  a  bit. 
That's  all  that  a  settlement  can  do,  after  all." 

Outside  the  door,  in  the  gymnasium,  we  could 
hear  the  joyful  shrieks  of  a  crowd  of  young  boys 
playing  basketball.  From  the  upper  floors  came 
a  scraping  of  feet  to  tell  that  the  clubs  were 
beginning  to  meet  for  the  evening.  From  across 
the  hall  came  the  sound  of  young  girls  singing 
the  parts  of  a  cantata — and  this  was  all  planned, 
all  created  by  Lawrence  Kichards  who  sat  there 
at  his  desk  and  had  a  smile  for  each  and  every- 
one who  came  before  him. 

"Don't  think  you're  different  from  all  the 
other  fellows  at  the  university,"  he  said  to  me. 
"You're  not.  You're  all  as  much  alike  as  a  row 
of  pins.  Your  problems  are  youth's  problems — 
and  you  needn't  be  ashamed  to  have  them,  as 
long  as  you  work  them  out  to  suit  the  best  that 


A  MAN'S  WORK  103 

is  in  you.  You've  nothing  definite  in  mind,  have 
you?" 

I  said,  "No."  I  only  had  an  idea  that  he 
migl>t  be  able  to  use  me  here  at  the  settlement 
in  some  capacity. 

"There's  a  good  deal  in  what  Trevelyan  said," 
he  told  me.  "While  you're  at  college  you  might 
as  well  give  college  all  that  it  needs  of  your  time 
and  energy.  College  will  surely  pay  you  back. 
All  the  work  that  you  do  on  a  team,  for  a  col- 
lege paper,  for  any  of  the  undergraduate  organ- 
izations, will  be  just  so  much  of  a  pledge  on  the 
part  of  your  college  that  she  will  honor  you, 
give  you  power  and  position  and  the  opportunity 
to  do  bigger  things.  Don't  you  want  those 
honors?  Doesn't  that  power  mean  anything  to 
you?" 

I  could  not  answer  him;  I  did  not  want  to 
tell  him  that  I  thought  myself  above  these  little 
things.  He  understood  me,  however,  even  in  my 
silence. 

"They  are  things  worth  while,"  he  said.  "There 
is  a  senior  society  worth  'making,'  if  you  can. 
It  would  be  something  to  be  proud  of  to  be  the 
only  Jew  ever  to  have  'made*  it.  But  it's  more 
than  an  honor.  That  senior  society  practically 
governs  the  student  body — molds  its  thought, 
holds  sway  over  all  campus  opinion.  Think  what 
you  could  do  if  you  were  a  member  of  it.  You 


104          THE  SEVEN-BRANCHED  CANDLESTICK 

could  fight  far  the  other  Jewish  boys,  make 
things  easier  and  fairer  for  them — could  spare 
them  the  unpleasant  things  you  had  to  bear. 
You  could  master  all  snobbery,  could  make  the 
university  a  place  of  real  American  democracy 
and  gentlemanliness.  Don't  you  think  that 
that's  worth  while?" 

I  admitted  it  was.  I  had  not  thought  of  it  in 
that  way. 

"Now,  this  is  what  I  suggest,"  he  said.  "It's 
getting  near  the  end  of  the  term,  and  there's  no 
use  in  your  beginning  any  work  down  here  at 
the  settlement  while  college  is  still  in  session. 
But  when  vacation  begins,  I  want  you  to  come 
down  here  to  live  for  a  couple  of  months.  I'll 
make  you  a  resident  club-leader,  and  you'll  have 
your  full  share  of  the  best  sort  of  work."  He 
paused  a  moment.  "Will  you  come?" 

"Will  I?    You  bet  I  will !" 

"Good!  And  in  the  meanwhile,  take  Trev- 
elyan's  advice — it's  mine,  to.  Stick  to  your  col- 
lege work  and  your  college  play,  and  don't  bother 
about  the  outside  world  for  a  while.  That  is 
your  world — the  college.  Fight  hard  in  it.  The 
whole  world  likes  a  stiff  upper  lip,  and  the  col- 
lege world  likes  it  best  of  all.  And,  sooner  or 
later,  Jew  or  Gentile,  the  college  world  will  re- 
pay you  for  all  that  you  give  it.  If  you  go 
through  college  shunning  everyone,  afraid  of 


A  MAN'S  WORK  105 

your  own  shadow,  surly  to  the  approach  of  all 
who  would  be  friendly  to  you,  you  will  reap 
nothing  but  loneliness  and  a  bitter  'grouch/  If 
you  loaf  and  play  cards  and  hang  about  the  bil- 
liard parlors  all  day  long,  you  won't  make  a 
friend  worth  having,  you  won't  gain  anything 
worth  remembering.  If  you  work  at  your  stud- 
ies only,  you'll  gain  nothing  but  Phi  Beta  Kappa 
— and,  for  all  its  worth,  that'll  mean  nothing  to 
you  unless  it  brings  along  with  it  the  respect  and 
good  will  of  all  the  men  from  whom  you  wrested 
it.  At  college  as  much  as  in  any  business  office 
a  smile  will  beget  a  smile,  willingness  to  work 
will  reap  willingness  to  reward — and  Alma  Ma- 
ter, if  only  you  prove  your  love  for  her  by  work- 
ing for  her,  will  return  your  love  tenfold." 

He  reached  over  the  desk  and  touched  my  arm. 

"I  don't  mean  to  be  just  rhetorical,"  he  con- 
tinued. "I  have  been  through  the  same  inner 
struggle  and  wonder  and  repugnance  that  you 
have — and  I  know  how  deeply  you  feel  it.  Well, 
I  worked  blindly  ahead  at  the  things  that  col- 
lege gave  me  to  work  at — the  football  team 
and  the  newspaper  and  all  that — and  soon 
enough  I  knew  that  I  had  been  working  into 
manhood  by  the  only  right  road.  Manhood  is 
a  matter  of  disposition,  not  of  work.  There's 
a  place  for  manhood  in  your  little  college  world. 
Go  and  find  that  place — and  give  it  all  that  is 
manly  and  courageous  in  you." 


106          THE  SEVEN-BRANCHED  CANDLESTICK 

I  left  him,  I  confess,  doubting  his  words  a 
little  to  find  that  place  of  which  he  spoke  so 
feelingly. 

Well,  perhaps  I  would  find  it.  Perhaps  an 
opportunity  would  spring  up  from  out  of  the 
sing-song  ordinariness  of  my  daily  life — and  what 
would  I  do  then? 


xn. 

THE  HEART  OF  JUDEA 

MY  promise  to  Mr.  Kichards  brought  more 
than  one  result.  The  first  of  them  was  a  serious 
quarrel  with  my  Aunt  Selina.  Her  horror  at 
the  idea  of  my  spending  the  summer  at  a  slum- 
settlement  was  beyond  curbing.  She  had  planned 
that  I  should  accompany  her  and  Mrs.  Flem- 
ing-Cohen upon  a  trip  to  Europe.  They  did  not 
need  me;  they  would  be  in  no  way  dependent 
on  my  company  .  .  .  and  I  flatly  declined. 
Aunt  Selina,  outraged  at  my  actual  intentions, 
left  for  France  a  week  earlier  than  she  had  ex- 
pected— and,  in  high  indignation,  gave  me  leave 
to  do  "whatever  I  pleased  by  way  of  disgracing 
her  reputation." 

Her  letter  from  the  steamer  warned  me  to  bathe 
every  day  in  very  hot  water,  lest  I  should  be  con- 
taminated by  the  filth  of  that  section  of  the  city 
which  I  had  chosen  for  my  summer  home  .  .  . 
and  to  be  sure  and  give  her  warmest  regards  to 
that  delightful  Mr.  Trevelyan! 

I  lost  no  time  in  moving  into  Mr.  Richards' 
company  at  the  East  Side  settlement  I  was 

107 


108  THE  SEVEN-BRANCHED  CANDLESTICK 

given  a  room  there  which  was  small,  dark,  but 
neat  and  comfortable  enough.  College  had  no 
sooner  closed  than  I  was  settled  in  it,  ready  for 
the  two  months  of  work  which  had  been  allotted 
me. 

In  return  for  my  board  and  lodgings,  the  settle- 
ment demanded  all  my  time.  There  was  hardly 
an  hour  which  was  not  given  to  some  sort  of  club 
or  class,  rehearsal  or  supervision  or  gymnastic 
training.  Almost  immediately  after  breakfast 
the  play-ground  work  began ;  by  noon  I  was  help- 
ing a  crowd  of  little  ragamuffins  to  forget  the 
heat  in  the  splashing  fun  of  the  swimming  pool, 
in  the  basement.  In  the  afternoon  there  were 
classes  for  young  boys  who  needed  tutoring — 
hungry-eyed,  eager  little  fellows  who  reminded 
me  of  what  I  must  have  been  when  I  was  their 
age. 

I  would  not  have  you  believe  that  I  was  readily 
sympathetic  with  every  case  I  met.  These  boys 
and  girls — though.  I  rarely  had  to  do  with  the 
latter — were  all  Jewish.  The  appearance  of 
some  of  them  would  perhaps  have  justified  my 
aunt's  antipathy  to  the  East  Side.  Those  that 
were  new  to  the  settlement,  I  noticed,  were 
shabby,  dull,  rough  of  speech,  surly  of  manners. 
It  would  need  a  few  weeks  before  I  could  see 
how  subtle,  yet  how  fundamental,  were  the 
changes  which  the  settlement  would  have 
wrought  in  them. 


THE  HEART  OF  JITDEA  109 

I  was  shy,  too,  in  the  presence  of  so  many 
boys:  shy  of  their  hastily-offered  friendship, 
their  rushing  eagerness  to  bring  me  into  all 
their  schemes  and  boyish  dreams.  But  I  was 
still  young  enough  to  know  those  dreams  upon 
my  own  account:  young  enough  to  feel  with 
little  Mosche,  a  cripple,  who  wanted  so  much 
to  become  an  expert  at  the  swinging  of  Indian 
clubs,  and  who  was  forever  dropping  the  heavy 
things  in  clumsy  weakness;  young  enough  to 
realize  how  much  his  mother's  love  meant  to 
thirteen-year-old  Frank  Cohen,  who  had  been 
caught  stealing  fruit  from  a  corner  grocery 
and  was  "on  parole." 

But  the  feeling  in  itself  was  not  enough, 
evidently.  I  must  try  and  try  to  make  that 
feeling  eloquent — to  make  these  boys  feel,  in 
turn,  the  sureness  and  helpfulness  of  my  un- 
derstanding. Sometimes  it  was  torture.  It  is 
harder  to  conquer  shyness  than  to  slap  a 
dragon. 

Mr.  Richards  saw  this  in  me — watched  the 
struggle,  appreciated  it.  He  spoke  of  it  to 
me,  once,  and  I  did  not  hesitate  to  tell  him 
how  I  felt.  How  inadequate,  how  chagrined 
and  humbled  in  the  face  of  all  the  poverty 
and  suffering  which  life  down  here  disclosed. 

"It  was  the  same  when  I  first  came  down 
here,"  he  said  to  me  in  turn.  "But  I  gained 
courage.  Thank  God  for  that!" 


110          THE  SEVEN-BRANCHED  CANDLESTICK 

He  said  it  quietly,  but  there  was  a  good  deal 
of  fervor  in  the  tones.  It  surprised  me,  some- 
how, because,  I  had  never  before  heard  him 
mention  the  name  of  the  Deity.  It  gave  me 
a  new  question  to  ask. 

"Why  is  it  that  you  don't  lay  more  stress 
on  religion  down  here?  Don't  the  boys  and 
girls  need  it?" 

"Need  it?  Who  doesn't?"  A  shadow  crossed 
his  face.  His  vivacity  gave  way  for  a  moment 
before  deep  thoughtfulness.  "But  they  get  all 
they  need,  these  kids.  They  are  mostly  all 
of  them  members  of  strictly  orthodox  Jewish 
families.  Keligion  is  given  them  at  all  hours 
in  their  own  homes.  Many  of  them  get  more 
of  it  than  they  can  ever  need.  They  get  so 
much  of  it  that  they  flee  from  it,  just  anxious 
for  the  freedom  of  the  streets  and  the  novelty 
of  the  bar  room  and  the  brothel  and  the 
gambling  den.  I  have  made  investigations. 
I  know  that  half  of  the  East  Side  boys  who 
land  in  the  police  court  have  been  driven  there 
by  the  religious  strictness  of  their  parents." 

"Mr.  Kichards,"  I  began  .  .  .  but  stopped 
in  dismay.  What  I  had  been  about  to  say 
was  no  more  nor  less  than  a  hot,  strong  denial 
of  his  opinion.  I  felt  sure  he  was  wrong — 
and  yet  it  seemed  humorous  to  me  that  I,  who 
a  year  ago,  had  hated  all  things  Jewish,  was 


THE  HEART  OF  JUDEA  111 

now  defending  all  the  worth  and  venerability 
of  its  ritual. 

"I  do  not  agree  with  you  altogether,"  I  said 
lamely.  "But  ...  but  still,  don't  think 
I  am  a  very  enthusiastic  Jew.  Because  I'm 
not." 

"Aren't  you?    Why  not?" 

I  did  not  answer — had  no  answer  to  make, 
in  fact.  I  did  not  want  to  tell  him  of  my 
aunt,  of  her  influence,  of  my  own  cowardice. 
But,  looking  at  me,  I  think  he  did  guess  some- 
thing of  the  longing  I  had  had  .  .  .  some- 
thing of  that  strange  night  when  I  had  stood 
outside  the  synagogue  and  heard  the  music  com- 
ing from  within  the  depths  of  its  golden  haze. 
For  he  put  his  hand  on  my  shoulder  and 
bade  me  think  for  a  moment  why  I  was  not 
a  Jew  in  spirit  as  well  as  in  name. 

"You're  not  a  snob,"  he  said,  trying  to  help 
me.  "You're  not  thinking  that,  because  your 
religion  is  in  the  minority  in  the  midst  of  a 
Christian  land,  it  is  necessarily  an  ignominy 
to  be  a  Jew — and  to  act  as  one." 

My  silence  held.  I  let  him  go  on  talking. 
"Anyhow,  you  need  religion.  Every  man  does 
to  a  variable  extent.  I  should  feel  sorry  for 
the  man  who  didn't.  And  do  you  mind  my 
telling  you — "  he  paused  only  for  a  second — 
"that  you  are  one  of  those  who  need  it  most?" 


112  THE  SEVEN-BRANCHED  CANDLESTICK 

I  hung  my  head.  He  had  hit  so  truly  up- 
on what  was  right,  what  was  most  secret  in 
me.  ...  I  could  not  ask  him  how  he  had 
guessed  it,  I  remembered  his  assertion  that 
he  knew  men — all  men — and  saw  now  that 
he  had  not  been  boasting. 

He  went  on,  presently,  to  explain  that  re- 
ligion was  a  thing  for  the  fathers  and  mothers 
and  rabbis  to  teach  to  the  children — not  for 
the  settlement  to  teach  them.  He  knew  that 
boys  needed  the  guidance  of  religion  .  .  . 
but  he  felt  that  it  was  supplied  in  even  too 
large  doses  already. 

"The  pity  of  it  is,"  he  said  in  closing,  "that 
wherever  Jewish  children  turn  away  from  the 
faith  of  their  fathers,  they  have  nothing  to 
turn  towards  next.  They  are  at  sea  .  .  ." 
he  gave  me  another  of  his  quick,  deep  set 
glances  .  .  .  "and  that  applies  to  rich  and 
poor  alike.  Christians  forget  their  religion 
when  they  feel  they  have  outgrown  it  ... 
because  they  have  lost  interest  in  it.  Jews 
forsake  theirs  but  never  forget  it.  Under  cer- 
tain circumstances  they  grow  impatient  with  it, 
slink  from  the  inconveniences  which  it  en- 
tails .  ,  i.  but  their  hearts  are  always  des- 
perate for  the  Faith.  It  is  a  hidden  loneliness, 
a  stifled  longing  to  them." 

I  thought  of  Aunt  Selina  and  wondered  if 


THE  HEART  OF  JUDEA  113 

she  had  ever  felt  that  loneliness,  that  longing, 
as  I  had.  I  could  hardly  imagine  her  happy 
in  devoutness  to  Judaism.  It  was  so  comical, 
I  laughed  aloud  .  .  .  and  got  up  and  left 
Mr.  Richards,  lest  he  should  ask  me  at  what 
I  was  laughing. 

It  was  his  remark  about  Jewish  children 
getting  all  the  religion  they  need  which  nettled 
me  the  most.  I  felt  that  I  would  like  to  go 
out  upon  the  streets  and  see  for  myself.  The 
streets  are  the  East  Side's  parliament,  its  court 
of  law  and  high  opinion. 

They  were  hot  and  glaring  with  the  noonday 
sun  when  first  I  appealed  to  them.  Their  pave- 
ments, white  and  littered  with  unspeakable  con- 
fusion, gave  off  a  dancing  wave  of  heat.  Old 
women,  squatting  on  their  doorsteps,  their 
coarse  wigs  low  upon  perspiring  foreheads, 
dozed  and  woke  and  gabbled  to  each  other  and 
dozed  again.  Old  men,  with  long  grey  beards, 
long,  tousled  hair  and  melancholy  eyes  shuffled 
listlessly  up  and  down,  stopping  only  to  make 
way  for  playing  children  or  to  pat  them  on 
the  head.  The  gutters  had  their  Jewish  peddlers, 
each  window  its  fat  Jewish  matron  who  leaned 
upon  a  cushioned  window-sill  and  gazed  apath- 
etically at  nothing.  There  was  a  Babel  of  Yid- 
dish and  Russian  and  guttural  English.  At  one 
corner  there  was  a  crap-game  going  on  in  full 


114          THE  SEVEN-BRANCHED  CANDLESTICK 

sight  of  the  policeman  across  the  street.  Young 
men  of  my  age  were  in  it;  youths  with  mean, 
furtive  faces  and  laughs  that  were  cruel  and 
raucous. 

So  this  was  Judea?  This  was  where  religion 
played  too  strong  a  part  .  .  .  where  parents 
and  rabbis  taught  so  fully  to  their  charges  the 
word  and  the  comfort  of  God?  It  did  not  seem 
so  to  me.  It  eeemed  all  hateful,  smeared,  re- 
pellant.  And,  with  the  question  unanswered. 
I  fled  from  it. 

But  the  next  morning,  in  the  settlement  play- 
ground, something  happened  which  began  the 
solution  for  me.  It  was  an  accident  and  I 
regretted  it  for  a  long  while,  feeling  that  it 
was  my  fault. 

I  had  been  teaching  little  Frank  Cohen  some 
tricks  on  the  horizontal  bar.  Frank,  the  boy 
on  parole  for  petty  theft,  was  daring  in  this 
gymnastic  work.  No  sooner  was  my  back  turned 
on  him  than  he  tried  one  of  the  tricks  without 
my  help.  His  fingers  slipped,  he  fell  heavily 
from  the  bar  to  the  ground.  When  we  picked 
him  up,  his  arm  was  found  to  be  broken. 

We  got  him  home  in  Mr.  Kichards'  little  run- 
about, and  put  the  boy  to  bed.  The  doctor  set 
his  arm  and  put  it  into  splints.  I  met  Frank's 
mother  here,  and,  later  on,  his  father  who,  hav- 
ing heard  of  the  accident,  came  rushing  upstairs 


THE  HEART  OF  JUDEA  115 

from  his  bakery  shop.  They  were  a  nervous, 
frightened  pair;  and  it  needed  all  the  talk  my 
lungs  were  capable  of  to  assure  them  that  their 
son  would  soon  recover  the  use  of  his  arm  and 
be  out  of  his  bandage. 

As  I  left  their  stuffy  little  flat,  they  were 
reciting  some  Hebrew  prayers  of  gratitude. 
Tears  were  on  the  checks  of  both  of  them,  and 
their  eyes  were  uplifted  to  a  God  I  could  not 
know.  I  went  downstairs  bitterly  conscious  of 
that. 

And  this  was  why,  when  Frank  Cohen,  pale, 
his  arm  in  a  sling,  but  the  hero  of  his  com- 
rades, came  again  to  the  settlement,  I  sought 
him  out  and  made  an  especial  friend  of  him. 
Of  what  that  friendship  should  become  I  had 
then  no  plan. 


XIII 
CHILD  AND  PARENT 

ONE  hot  evening,  when  the  fire-escapes  were 
crowded  with  hundreds  of  sleeping  children,  and 
the  streets  were  shrieking  canyons  of  heated 
Btone  and  iron,  and  men  and  women  lay  in  the 
grass  of  little  parks,  breathing  heavily  as  if  in 
prayer  for  coolness,  I  learned  the  secret  in  the 
heart  of  young  Frank  Cohen. 

He  was  sitting  beside  me  in  the  amateur  roof- 
garden  which  Mr.  Richards  had  contrived  atop 
the  settlement.  We  had  wicker  chairs  there,  a 
few  potted  palms  and  a  solitary,  tiny  goldfish 
in  a  small  glass  bowl.  That  was  the  extent  of  its 
furnishings;  but  in  the  later  afternoons  the  old 
.Jewish  mothers  would  come  and  sit  here  and 
doze  in  the  sun,  grateful  for  the  breeze,  city-fed 
and  redolent,  which  might  carry  relief  towards 
them. 

This  afternoon  Frank's  mother  had  been 
among  them.  I  had  seen  her  there,  a  pale,  little 
woman  who  sat  with  her  sewing  in  her  lap, 
staring  dully  out  over  the  roofs  below  her.  I 
had  been  detailed  to  go  around  among  these 

116 


CHILD  AND  PARENT  117 

women  and  to  make  them  as  comfortable  as  I 
could.  Hardly  a  one,  however,  could  understand 
English;  and  Frank's  mother,  when  I  came  to 
her,  took  no  notice  of  anything  that  I  said  or 
mentioned.  She  looked  at  me  from  under 
lowered  eyebrows.  Later  on  Mr.  Richards,  who 
had  had  her  under  his  attention  for  some 
months,  told  me  how  frightened  she  had  been  by 
her  son's  misdemeanor — it  had  been  no  more 
than  that,  according  to  the  police  report — and 
it  was  easy  to  imagine  that  she  looked  with 
suspicion  upon  every  comrade  whom  Frank  fol- 
lowed, now.  The  fact  that  I  was  so  much  older 
and  was  a  member  of  the  staff  of  the  settle- 
ment workers  was  not  enough  to  overcome  the 
whole  of  her  distrust. 

And  when  the  evening  came,  and  Frank  and 
I  had  emerged  from  one  of  the  club  meetings — 
for  he  was  president  of  his  particular  club  of 
boys  of  his  own  age — hot  and  tired  from  wrang- 
ling over  Robert's  Rules  of  Order  and  the  word- 
ing of  a  baseball  challenge  to  be  sent  to  a  rival 
organization,  he  told  me  the  entire  story  of  that 
misdemeanor.  He  would  not  speak  of  it  readily. 
He  too  felt  the  shame  of  it,  differently  of  course, 
but  no  less  heavily.  He  had  been  in  bad  com- 
pany. He  had  been  going  for  months  with  some 
sons  of  one  of  the  East  Side's  notorious  gamb- 
lers— boys  who  were  wise  beyond  their  years  and 


118          THE  SEVEN-BRANCHED  CANDLESTICK 

brutal  beyond  their  strength.  Cowardly,  sneaky, 
they  had  prompted  him  to  steal  things  at  the 
counters  of  all  the  shops  on  their  street.  He  had 
never  realized,  under  their  whispered  urgings, 
how  wrong  it  was — and  he  had  never  had  a 
chance  to  profit  by  his  thefts  himself.  The  petty 
business  had  gone  on  for  a  couple  of  weeks,  the 
other  boys  praising  him,  bullying  him  by  turn, 
and  dividing  the  loot  between  them.  And  when 
the  inevitable  happened  and  Frank  found  him- 
self locked  for  the  night  in  a  police  court,  frantic 
at  the  disgrace  which  the  loathsome  night  ex- 
aggerated, these  boys  informed  against  him. 

When  he  told  me  of  this,  and  how  they  had 
come  snivelling  before  the  police  lieutenant,  and 
had  lied  to  make  that  fat,  gruff,  old  master  be- 
lieve that  Frank  had  stolen  even  more  than  he 
actually  had,  and  all  for  the  sake  of  becoming 
the  chief  of  their  "gang" — then  his  narrow  face 
darkened  and  writhed  with  a  hate  that  was  too 
great  for  him  to  bear — and  presently  tears  came 
into  his  black  eyes. 

"Were  they  Jewish  boys?"  I  asked  him.  "No," 
he  answered  passionately.  "I  think  I  should 
have  gone  crazy  if  they  had  been." 

I  glanced  at  him  quickly.  He  did  not  smile 
as  he  said  it,  nor  was  there  anything  too  melo- 
dramatic about  his  manner. 

"Why  do  you  say  that?  That  you  would  have 
gone  crazy?" 


CHILD  AND  PARENT  119 

"Don't  you  see?    You're  a  Jew,  ain't  you?" 

I  said,  "Yes." 

'Well,  I  couldn't  talk  about  it  to  you  at  all 
if  you  wasn't.  And  if  they  had  been  Jews — my 
own  people — and  had  gone  back  on  ine  like  that, 
it  would  've  been  just  a  little  too  much.  They 
were  just  tough  kids — and  so  they  didn't  know 
any  better.  If  they  had  been  Jews  they  wouldn't 
have  taught  me  to  steal,  they  wouldn't  have  done 
what  they — God,  my  father  and  mother  were 
right  about  it,  for  sure !" 

"Your  father  and  mother?  Why,  what  had 
they  to  do  with  it?" 

"Oh,  you  know  how  parents  are.  They  used 
to  warn  me  against  going  with  those  tough  kids. 
They  seemed  to  know  from  the  beginning  that 
something  'd  happen  out  of  it.  They  said — you 
know,  it's  like  old  folks — that  Christian  boys 
would  never  want  to  go  with  me  unless  to  gain 
their  own  ends — and  then  to  desert  me,  see? 
They  wanted  me  to  go  with  the  Jewish  boys  I'd 
been  going  with  all  my  life,  before  then.  But 
I  laughed  and  didn't  listen.  And — and  when  I 
had  to  pay  back  for  all  the  things  I  stole,  it 
was — well,  it  was  the  Jewish  boys  I  knew  who 
clubbed  together  and  earned  money  by  odd  jobs 
after  school — and  if  it  wasn't  for  them,  I'd  be  in 
the  workhouse." 

"But  all  Christian  boys  aren't  like  the  ones 
you  went  with,"  I  argued. 


120          THE  SEVEN-BRANCHED  CANDLESTICK 

"No,  I  suppose  not.  But  I  like  to  think  that 
all  Jewish  boys  are  like  the  ones  on  this  street. 
They  made  a  good  Jew  of  me!" 

I  turned  on  him  quickly.    "Did  they?    How?" 

"They  made  me  proud  of  being  one  of  them. 
They  made  me  feel  the  close  something-or-other 
— well,  I  ain't  much  when  it  comes  to  speeches 
but  you  know  what  I  mean." 

Perhaps  I  did,  but  I  would  not  admit  it  to 
myself.  Perhaps  I  did  see  the  faith  reborn  in 
him  through  the  faith  that  other  boys  had  given 
him.  Perhaps,  too,  I  could  picture  something 
of  the  welling  joy  that  had  come  to  his  parents 
when  he  returned  to  the  only  right  path  that 
their  simple,  unquestioning  eyes  could  see.  And 
how  jealously  they  must  be  guarding  him  now, 
to  keep  him  in  that  code  which  was  their  life's 
law  and  had  become  his  daily  lesson ! 

"Don't  you  see?"  he  begged.  "Can't  you? 
Why,  a  fellow's  just  got  to  have  a  side  to  fight 
on — and  to  fight  for.  And  he's  got  to  believe 
that  his  side  is  the  only  one,  the  right  one. 
Life  wouldn't  be  worth  living  without  it.  You 
don't  know  what  it  means  to  be  fighting  -for  the 
right!" 

From  below  came  the  droning  of  the  unquiet 
streets.  A  little  higher  up  a  hot  wind  went  al- 
most noiselessly  among  the  chimneys,  so  that 
we  heard  but  faint  sighs.  The  roof  garden  was 


CHILD  AND  PARENT  121 

in  darkness,  naught  gleaming  but  the  little  glass 
bowl  of  gold  fish.  There  was  a  sense  of  utter 
darkness  and  loneliness — and  yet  into  it  had 
come,  like  the  glad,  brave  blast  of  New  Year's 
trumpet,  a  battle  cry  of  the  One  God.  A  battle 
cry  which  made  throb  the  heart  of  a  young,  rough 
boy ;  a  battle  cry  which  would  be  his  whole  life's 
secret  well  of  gratitude  and  bravery. 

"You  don't  know  what  it  means  to  be  fighting 
for  the  right!" 

He  was  so  slight,  so  meagre  in  appearance, 
that  I  could  not  help  finding  something  gently 
humorous  about  his  utterance.  But  when  I 
looked  at  him  and  saw  how  his  eyes  glowed 
through  the  dark,  and  how  he  stood  straight 
and  at  full  height,  his  narrow  shoulders  thrown 
back,  in  spite  of  his  bandaged  arm,  and  his 
face  upraised  to  the  summer  stars,  my  smile 
passed  quickly. 

There  came  over  me  that  same  queer  panging 
sense  of  being  only  on  the  outside  of  things — 
only  on  Life's  outermost  border.  I  was  looking 
straight  into  the  heart  of  a  boy  and  seeing  the 
gladness  which  blazed  there — and  yet  I  could 
not  have  it,  as  he  had  it.  Here  was  this  sudden, 
all-forgetting  boldness  of  belief  which  he  had 
won — and  I  could  only  watch  it  covetously 
through  the  bars  of  my  exiled  doubts. 

No,  no,  he  was  right — a  thousand  times  more 


122          THE  SEVEN-BRANCHED  CANDLESTICK 

right  than  I.  If  faith  in  the  One  God  did  all 
of  this  for  him,  then  that  faith  was  surely  jus- 
tified. 

And  if  I  could  only  bring  myself  to  believe 
as  deeply,  as  powerfully  as  he  did — then  my 
whole  life  would  be  remade  as  his  had  been — 
and  I,  too,  would  fight  for  what  I  must  believe: 
would  fight — for  the  right! 

I  did  not  let  him  talk  any  further,  but  sent 
him  home.  I  did  not  want  his  parents  to  be 
worrying  as  to  where  he  was,  this  time  of  night. 
I  stayed  on  a  little  while,  looking  over  the  roofs 
and  the  white-faced  huddlings  of  the  fire-escapes, 
and  then  I  went  to  bed,  to  toss  with  heat  and 
battle  with  my  thoughts  throughout  the  night. 

When  the  morning  came,  I  went  early  to 
Frank's  house.  The  pavements  were  fresh  and 
damp  with  the  water  of  a  sprinkling  cart,  and 
the  shops,  just  beginning  to  open,  had  a  Sabbath 
air  of  cleanliness.  It  was  cooler  than  yesterday, 
too,  and  the  street  corners  were  still  cleared  and 
quiet. 

I  had  been  granted  permission  to  take  Frank 
and  two  other  boys  on  a  picnic  to  Westchester. 
He  was  ready  for  me  when  I  knocked  at  his 
door,  and  let  me  into  the  darkened  kitchen. 

His  mother  was  there,  too,  cutting  bread  for 
sandwiches  which  we  would  take  along.  Her  old 
morning  wrapper  and  her  hastily-shawled  head 


CHILD  AND  PARENT  128 

gave  her  an  even  more  forbidding  appearance 
than  ever.  But  when  her  sandwiches  were 
packed  into  a  box  and  wrapped  and  tied,  she 
wiped  her  hands  on  a  towel  and  looked  at  me 
steadfastly,  not  unkindly,  for  fully  a  minute. 

I  could  not  understand  what  she  said.  It  was 
in  Yiddish,  and  I  have  never  learned  that  tongue. 
But  here  and  there  I  caught  a  word  which  gave 
me  enough  of  her  meaning. 

She  was  telling  me  that  Frank  had  spoken  to 
her  of  me  last  night  when  he  returned  from  the 
blessed  settlement.  He  always  came  to  her  bed- 
side, nowadays,  knowing  that  she  would  be  awake 
and  waiting  to  hear  where  he  had  been.  And  so 
he  had  whispered,  while  his  father  slept,  of  the 
strange  young  man  who  was  so  kind — a  Jew, 
like  them — and  yet  who  had  no  faith  in  God. 

Then  suddenly  she  began  to  beg  something. 
"Mutter,  mutter,"  was  all  I  could  make  of  it — 
and  I  guesed  that  she  was  asking  me  of  my 
mother,  and  wondering  why  I  did  not  listen  at 
her  knee  as  Frank  had  done  at  his  own  mother's. 
And  when  I  told  her  that  my  mother  was  dead, 
tears  came  into  her  eyes,  and  this  was  the  finest 
sympathy  I  had  ever  known. 

For  she  put  her  big,  buttery  hand  on  mine  and 
shook  her  head.  "You  must  learn  to  know  God," 
I  think  she  said.  "He  alone  can  take  your 
mother's  place.  He  made  my  son  what  I  longed 


124          THE  SEVEN-BRANCHED  CANDLESTICK 

he  should  be.  He  will  make  you  what  you  most 
desire.  In  God  alone  is  there  happiness." 

And  so  Frank  and  I  went  out  and  down  the 
dirty,  narrow  stairs,  and  came  into  a  street  of 
Heaven  itself — a  street  of  early  sunlight,  and  a 
clear  sky  above — and  morning  smiles  upon  the 
faces  of  all  passersby.  Or  so  it  seemed  to  me, 
at  any  rate. 

Because,  for  once  in  my  life,  I  had  seen  the 
happiness  of  mother  and  child  swept  up  into 
glory  that  is  God's. 

And  I  laughed  to  think  of  Mr.  Eichard's  re- 
mark that  religion  works  harm  among  these 
East  Side  people. 


XIV 

AN  UNGRATEFUL  NEPHEW 

THE  summer  came  to  an  end  only  too  quickly. 
I  had  enjoyed  every  moment  of  it,  every  op- 
portunity. I  had  built  up  three  clubs  of  which 
I  was  personal  leader;  I  had  given  service  in 
the  gymnasium  and  playground;  I  had  helped 
in  the  development  of  a  roof-garden  cordiality 
between  the  settlement  workers  and  the  mothers 
of  children  on  the  street.  Mr.  Richards,  the  last 
night  I  was  there,  presented  me  with  a  loving- 
cup  on  behalf  of  the  other  workers. 

It  was  at  supper  that  he  did  this,  in  front  of 
them  all.  He  called  upon  me,  then,  to  describe 
to  them  the  most  interesting  experience  I  had 
had  in  the  course  of  the  summer.  So  I  told 
them  the  incident  of  Frank  Cohen  and  his 
mother — but  I  do  not  think  they  saw  much  that 
was  interesting  about  it.  Mr.  Richards  may  have, 
perhaps,  because  he  must  have  remembered  that 
dictum  of  his  which  the  incident  disproved ;  but 
even  he  could  guess  little  of  the  impression  it 
had  made  upon  my  thought  and  character. 

I  had  had  a  letter  from  my  Aunt  Selina,  to  tell 

125 


126          THE  SEVEN-BRANCHED  CANDLESTICK 

me  curtly  that  she  was  back  in  New  York,  bat 
intended  starting  out  immediately  upon  an  auto- 
mobile tour  through  New  England  into  Canada, 
in  company  with  Mrs.  Fleming-Cohen  and  some 
ship-board  acquaintances — "personages,"  she 
called  them  in  her  much  underlined  letter,  which 
probably  meant  that  she  had  succeeded  in  cap- 
turing some  stray  society  folk.  She  bade  me 
go  back  to  our  apartment  and  to  have  it  ready 
for  her  on  her  return.  The  servants,  she  said, 
were  already  there,  engaged  in  cleaning  away 
the  summer's  dust.  She  hoped  "I  would  be  able 
to  start  the  college  year  without  her,  and  that 
I  would  comport  myself  on  the  campus  in  a  man- 
ner creditable  and  befitting,  etc.,  etc." 

But  in  spite  of  the  servants'  efforts  to  make 
things  bright  and  comfortable,  the  apartment 
was  a  dismal  and  lonely  place.  College  kept 
me  uptown  all  day  long,  of  course,  but  when 
the  evening  came  and  I  must  return  to  the  big, 
empty  rooms  that  were  our  substitute  for  home, 
I  did  not  like  it.  I  began  to  linger  more  and 
more  about  the  campus  at  night:  it  was  truly 
the  most  beautiful  time  to  be  there,  when  the 
autumn  moon  silvered  its  lawns  and  gave  the 
buildings  a  marble  whiteness.  There  was  sing- 
ing on  the  fences,  then,  and  all  sorts  of  meetings 
of  all  kinds  of  college  organizations.  The  cam- 
pus hummed  with  a  hundred  undergraduate  ac- 


AN  UNGRATEFUL  NEPHEW  127 

tivities — so  that  I  saw,  as  never  before,  how 
much  I  missed  through  having  to  go  downtown 
each  night  to  live.  But  so  long  as  my  aunt 
wanted  it,  I  felt  I  owed  it  to  her  to  obey,  and 
would  not  even  consider  the  renting  of  Tre- 
velyan's  suite  of  rooms  in  the  principal  dormi- 
tory. Trevelyan  had  given  up  these  rooms  to 
move  into  his  fraternity  house. 

"It's  a  dreadful  bore,"  he  said  to  me  in  his 
lazy,  rueful  way.  "I'd  be  ten  times  more  com- 
fortable here — but  I  don't  want  to  insult  the 
brothers.  However,  you'll  come  up  to  the  house 
and  see  me  just  as  often,  won't  you?" 

I  promised  him  I  would,  but  he  seemed  to 
know  as  well  as  I  that  I  would  not.  A  sopho- 
more paying  nightly  visits  to  a  senior  in  the 
fraternity  house  where  that  sophomore  had  only 
a  year  ago  been  smiled  politely  out — no,  it  didn't 
seem  even  probable.  And  so,  when  I  had  helped 
Trevelyan  put  his  last  bit  of  furniture  upon  a 
truck — and  had  tucked  among  the  rungs  of  many 
Morris  chairs  the  bundle  of  flags  and  college 
shields  which  he  had  overlooked — I  could  hardly 
bear  to  shake  hands  with  him.  We  both  knew 
that  it  was  something  in  the  nature  of  a  definite 
goodbye;  at  any  rate,  so  far  as  college  was  con- 
cerned. 

"A  damned  nuisance,  this,"  he  said  thickly, 
his  short-sighted  eyes  screwing  up  oddly.  "And 


128          THE  SEVEN-BKANCHED  CANDLESTICK 

if  it  wasn't  for  the  brothers — "  But  the  brothers 
did  win  him,  and  I  lost  a  friend  thereby. 

The  home  to  which  I  must  go  seemed  lonelier 
than  ever  now.  I  was  not  expecting  Aunt  Selina 
for  two  more  weeks,  and  so  I  hit  upon  the  idea 
of  inviting  some  one  to  stay  with  me  until  then. 

Frank  Cohen!  Yes,  I  would  ask  Frank 
Cohen.  He  was  going  to  high  school  now,  and 
the  branch  which  he  attended  was  not  so  far 
from  where  I  lived.  It  would  be  convenient  for 
him,  and  perhaps  a  happy  change  from  the  East 
Side  crowdedness  which  he  had  had  to  encounter 
all  his  life. 

He  was  as  glad  to  come  as  I  to  have  him. 
I  gave  him  Aunt  Selina's  room  to  sleep  in,  and 
we  sat  there,  when  our  homework  was  done, 
many  evenings  until  past  midnight,  talking 
gently  and  thoughtfully  of  many  things.  He  was 
a  boy  much  as  I  had  been — and  perhaps,  still 
was.  He  was  shy  to  an  uncomfortable  degree, 
low  of  voice,  dreamy  in  manner.  But  when 
he  was  aroused  to  something  especial,  he  be- 
came uncontrollably  intense,  his  eyes  flashing 
and  his  knees  trembling,  so  that  his  whole  small 
body  seemed  but  the  sheer  vibration  of  his 
thoughts. 

He  was  hoping  to  go  to  college,  when  his 
high  school  days  were  over.  He  had  not  dared 
mention  it  at  home,  though,  because  he  knew 


AN  UNGRATEFUL  NEPHEW  129 

how  poor  his  father  was,  and  how  much  of  a 
help  he  would  be  when  he  could  go  to  work  and 
begin  to  carry  home  his  weekly  earnings.  He 
hated  to  go  into  a  shoddy  little  business;  he 
wanted  to  study  further,  to  take  up  some  pro- 
fession— perhaps  the  law.  Or  if  he  did  go  into 
business,  he  wanted  to  have  had  a  few  years 
of  college  first,  so  that  he  might  see  things  broad- 
ly and  with  a  mind  trained  for  bigness.  But 
he  had  only  dreamed  all  this,  only  longed  for 
it  in  secret.  He  would  rather  forego  all  of 
it  than  urge  his  father  to  make  the  big  sacrifice. 

I  had  come  to  be  so  fond  of  him,  it  was  not 
long  before  I  decided  upon  what  seemed  to  be 
a  proper  solution.  Without  a  word  to  Frank, 
I  escaped  from  college  early  one  afternoon  and 
went  downtown  to  that  East  Side  street  where 
he  lived.  I  found  his  father  in  the  cellar  of  the 
bakery  shop  which  he  owned,  his  beard  all 
whitened  with  flour  dust,  his  thin,  bare  arms 
thick  with  the  paste  of  dough. 

With  rehearsed  gesticulations  I  made  him  un- 
derstand what  I  offered.  My  own  father  had  left 
me  fairly  well  off ;  I  wanted  to  lay  out  the  money 
which  would  be  necessary  to  afford  Frank  a 
college  education.  They  could  pay  it  back  when 
they  pleased — not  for  many  years  would  I  need 
it. 

I  had  a  distinct  surprise,  then.    My  generosity 


130  THE  SEVEN-BRANCHED  CANDLESTICK 

was  taken  somewhat  aback  by  the  man's  ap- 
parent anger.  He  seemed  to  be  resenting  any 
suggestion  of  charity.  I  tried  to  assure  him  that 
this  was  not  what  I  intended,  but  he  did  not 
understand.  At  length  we  had  to  call  in  one 
of  the  bakery's  oven-tenders  to  act  as  inter- 
preter. And  through  this  third  party  Mr.  Cohen 
thanked  me  kindly.  He  appreciated  all  I  offered, 
but  he  had  long  ago  made  arrangements  for 
Frank. 

"And  what  are  those  arrangements?"  I  asked 
anxiously,  picturing  the  boy  at  work  in  this 
dark,  mouldy  cellar. 

"It  is  a  secret,"  said  Mr.  Cohen.  "But  it  is 
time  now  for  me  to  disclose  what  his  mother  and 
I  have  planned  for  him.  For  ten  years  we  have 
saved.  And  we  have  saved  enough  to  send  him 
to  college.  He  shall  go  there  and  we  ourselves 
shall  send  him."  He  drew  himself  up  as  he 
said  it,  so  that  I  had  a  glimpse  of  that  pride 
which  all  Jewish  fathers  seem  to  take  in  hard- 
ships which  they  undergo  for  their  children. 
"It  is  so  with  the  son  of  the  president  of  my 
synagogue,"  he  said.  "It  shall  be  no  less  so 
with  my  son,  either.  He  shall  have  what  his 
father  could  not  have,  though  his  father  starve 
and  slave  to  give  it  to  him !" 

The  dull  interpreter  gave  me  this  in  flat,  spirit- 
less tones;  but  I  could  see  the  clenched  hands 


AN  UNGRATEFUL  NEPHEW  131 

and  the  earnest  face  of  Mr.  Cohen,  and  I  nodded 
quickly. 

"I  am  very  glad,"  I  told  him.  "And  I  know 
it  will  mean  ten  times  more  in  happiness  to  you 
because  you  are  giving  him  all  this  with  your 
own  hands.  Frank  said  to  me  he  dared  not 
ask  it  of  you — he  thought  the  sacrifice)  too 
great — and  that  is  why  I  came  to  you  with  my 
offer.  Do  not  think  me  rude,  therefore." 

He  answered  gravely.  I  was  not  rude,  he  as- 
sured me,  and  he  owed  me  deep  thanks.  He 
had  only  one  favor  to  ask;  that  I  should  not 
tell  Frank  the  secret,  but  would  leave  it  and 
the  joy  that  it  would  bring,  for  him,  his  father. 
He  would  tell  him  immediately  after  Frank  had 
returned  home  from  his  stay  at  my  apartment. 

I  hurried  home,  for  it  was  now  nearly  supper- 
time.  To  my  amazement  I  found  Frank  sitting 
in  the  lobby  of  the  apartment,  his  old  suitcase 
beside  him,  his  look  one  of  fevered  disconsole- 
ment. 

"What's  the  trouble?"  I  asked  him. 

"Oh,  I  just  wanted  to  say  goodby  to  you,"  he 
said  hurriedly.  "I  did  not  want  to  go  without 
doing  that.  I've — I've  had  a  pleasant  time." 

"But  why  are    you  going?" 

"Oh,  I  want  to  be  home  .  .  .  you  know, 
I  get  a  little  homesick."  But  he  said  it  so 
stumblingly  that  I  was  sure  he  was  not  telling 
me  all. 


132          THE  SEVEN-BRANCHED  CANDLESTICK 

"Frank,"  I  demanded,  "tell  me  the  truth.  Has 
anything  gone  wrong?  I  had  hoped  you  would 
stay  until  my  aunt  returned." 

He  laughed  at  that,  and  mystified  me  the  more. 
"Have  any  of  the  servants  offended  you  in  any 
way?"  I  asked,  searching  my  brain  for  some  rea- 
son for  his  change  of  attitude. 

"The  servants?  Oh,  no,  of  course,  not!"  He 
picked  up  his  suitcase  and  started  for  the  street. 
"Well,  goodby,"  he  said.  He  stopped  as  if  he 
wanted  to  explain,  then  thought  better — or  worse 
— of  it,  and  went  on.  I  was  a  little  nettled  by 
this  time,  and  let  him  go. 

As  I  went  up  in  the  elevator,  it  seemed  to  me 
a  mighty  mystery.  But  no  sooner  had  I  let  my- 
self into  tlie  apartment  than  I  was  due  for  a 
bigger  surprise. 

For  there,  blocking  the  hallway,  a  figure  of 
offended  pride,  stood  Aunt  Selina. 

I  went  to  her  to  kiss  her,  but  she  stepped 
back  and  glared  into  my  face. 

"It's  a  lucky  thing  I  came  back  unexpected- 
ly," she  said.  "The  idea  of  finding  a  little  Jew 
boy  like  that  in  my  room — sitting  in  my  own 
bedroom  with  his  copy  books  spread  all  over 
my  directoire  desk!  A  common  little  boy  with 
an  accent!" 

I  saw  it  all,  now. 

"That  boy  was  one  of  my  best  friends,"  I 


AN  UNGRATEFUL  NEPHEW  133 

told  her  as  calmly  as  I  could.  "Had  I  thought 
you  would  have  objected  to  his  presence  here, 
I  would  never  have  invited  him  to  stay  with 
me  for  these  weeks." 

"Weeks?  What,  you  have  had  that  little  East 
Side  creature  here  for  weeks?"  She  began  to 
walk  up  and  down  the  hall  in  feline  fury. 
"Haven't  you  any  idea  of  what  is  proper?  Here 
I  go  away  with  some  of  the  most  cultured  and 
well-known  society  people  in  New  York — an  ab- 
solute triumph — and  you  use  my  home  as  a 
refuge  for  nasty  little  scum  of  the  slums.  It 
isn't  bad  enough  for  you  to  spend  your  summer 
in  such  disgusting  company.  You  have  to  cap 
it  all  by  bringing  them  up  into  my  own  home. 
Think  of  the  disgrace  it  would  mean  if  any  of 
these  new  friends  of  mine  were  to  discover  it!" 

"I  have  my  own  friends  to  consider,"  I  told 
her  patiently.  "And  this  boy  is  one  of  them. 
What  did  you  tell  him?" 

"Tell  him?  What  should  I  tell  him?"  She 
made  a  great  show  of  shuddering.  "I  told  him 
to  get  out.  To — to  get  out  as  fast  as  he  could." 

I  looked  at  her  evenly  for  as  long  a  while  as 
she  could  stand  it.  Then  her  miserable  pose 
gave  way  to  pettishness,  and  she  cried: 

"And  what's  more,  you'll  have  to  get  out  your- 
self, if  you  insist  on  trying  any  more  of  these 
outrageous  things.  I  can't  bear  it,  that's  all. 


134          THE  SEVEN-BRANCHED  CANDLESTICK 

You'll  have  to  get  out  before  you  disgrace  me!" 

"I  shall,"  I  agreed,  and,  passing  her,  went  into 
my  own  room  and  began  to  pack. 

We  had  a  silent,  sullen  supper.  At  the  end 
of  it  I  told  her  that  my  clothes  were  packed  and 
that  I  intended  moving  on  the  morrow  to 
Trevelyan's  empty  suite,  up  at  college.  I  would 
take  none  of  the  furniture  from  my  room,  how- 
ever, since  I  did  not  wish  to  inconvenience  her. 
I  would  not  trouble  her  at  all  after  to-night. 

She  may  have  thought  this  was  pure  bragging, 
she  may  have  been  reconciled  to  it.  At  any 
rate  she  made  no  answer,  and  let  me  go  to  my 
room  without  a  word  of  comment. 

And  it  was  only  two  weeks  later,  when  I  was 
comfortably  settled  in  my  room  on  the  campus, 
that  I  received  a  stormy  letter  from  her,  calling 
me  a  "most  ungrateful  monster  of  a  nephew." 


XV 

COLLEGE  LIFE 

ACROSS  the  hall  from  Trevelyan's  rooms  lived 
one  of  the  college  "grinds."  Now  that  I  had 
moved  there  and  came  and  went  at  all  hours  of 
the  day,  I  saw  this  man  often. 

Fallen — that  was  his  name — stood  fully  six- 
feet  four,  and  had  about  a  thirty-two-inch  waist. 
He  stooped  until  his  thin  shoulder  blades  were  at 
directly  right  angles  to  each  other.  He  would 
never  talk  to  any  one  he  met  on  his  way;  his 
nose  was  always  deep  in  the  book  which  he  held 
outspread.  He  was  the  most  ferocious  grind  I 
have  ever  known. 

Next  to  Fallen  lived  Waters,  a  cheery,  well- 
dressed  little  person,  who  had  pink  cheeks  and 
no  disturbing  thoughts.  Waters  was  a  member 
of  one  of  the  minor  fraternities ;  he  spoke  long- 
ingly of  the  day  when  he  would  be  living  in 
his  "chapter  lodge."  Waters  was  easy  company. 
He  had  four  hundred  "friends"  around  the  cam- 
pus, and  when  I  met  him  was  engaged  in  capital- 
izing on  those  friendships  by  canvassing  votes  for 
his  election  to  a  team  managership. 

135 


136          THE  SEVEN-BRANCHED  CANDLESTICK 

That  perhaps  is  why  he  came  into  my  room 
so  often  to  sit  and  chat  pleasantly,  lightly,  about 
almost  every  topic  known  to  the  college  man. 
He  was  very  much  of  a  type.  There  were  at 
least  thirty  other  men  in  that  class  who  were 
like  him,  no  better  nor  worse,  nor  more  nor  less 
attractive  than  he  was.  Popularity  was  an  end 
and  a  means  with  him.  It  was  all  he  wanted 
of  college. 

<rWell,  how  are  you,  old  top?"  was  the  greet- 
ing  that  came  singing  from  his  room,  each  time 
I  passed  its  open  door.  It  was  a  door  perennially 
open,  lest  some  passerby  might  escape  without 
the  greeting. 

"D'you  know,  old  chap,"  he'd  say,  sweeping 
into  my  room  in  the  midst  of  a  study-hour  and 
slumping  down  upon  the  divan  with  a  great 
show  of  silk  socks  and  shirtings,  "it's  high  time 
you  and  I  did  something  for  that  'grind'  across 
the  hall." 

He  was  tremendously  interested  in  Fallon,  it 
would  appear.  Not  personally,  he  explained  to 
me — but  just  because  Fallon  might  become  a 
valuable  friend  in  time.  A  college  man  needed 
friends — and  he,  Waters,  had  only  four  hundred 
of  them! 

Fallon,  however,  had  something  of  his  own 
opinion  about  it.  He  went  about  the  building 
with  his  book  before  him,  bowing  neither  to  me 


COLLEGE  LIFE  137 

nor  Waters  nor  any  one  else.  It  was  dreadful 
to  have  to  speak  to  him.  He  could  scarcely  an- 
swer; his  big  Adam's-apple  would  go  juggling 
painfully  up  and  down,  and  finally  he  would 
succeed  in  emitting  a  barely  audible  whisper. 
He  would  blush,  stammer,  clap  his  mouth  shut, 
then  hurry  away. 

That  was  Fallen,  worst  of  "grinds."  He  was 
beginning  to  be  the  butt  of  all  sorts  of  miserable 
jokes.  Even  the  freshmen  over-stepped  the  line 
to  make  fun  of  him.  For,  like  Waters  and  my- 
self, he  was  a  sophomore. 

In  the  guise  of  helping  a  classmate,  Waters 
took  charge  of  him.  He  gave  him  nightly  lec- 
tures in  cordiality,  in  self-confidence,  in  the  bet- 
tering of  one's  appearance.  Once,  when  I  chanced 
to  go  by,  I  heard  him  delivering  glib  advice  upon 
what  "Fallen,  old  top"  ought  to  eat,  in  order 
that  he  might  grow  stouter  and  more  favorable 
to  look  upon.  And  Fallon  sat  through  it  all  and 
clutched  his  bony  knees  and  grinned  the  grin 
of  the  helpless. 

But  one  day,  the  story  goes,  he  surprised 
Waters  by  finding  his  voice — and  a  very  full- 
toned,  convincing  voice  it  proved  to  be,  not  at 
all  like  his  usual  whisper.  And  he  told  Waters 
to  keep  out  of  his  room  in  study  hour; 
he  told  him  that  he  did  not  care  to  have  his 
chances  of  becoming  class  valedictorian  spoiled 


138          THE  SEVEN-BRANCHED  CANDLESTICK 

through,  having  to  divert  his  attention  and  listen 
to  such  superficial  tommy-rot.  And  he  told  him 
to  keep  himself  away,  now  and  forever  more, 
from  his  room  and  its  owner. 

"Oh,  very  well !"  I  heard  the  injured  Waters 
say.  A  second  later  he  had  come  across  into 
my  room  and  was  pouring  into  my  ear  a  com- 
plaint concerning  the  beggarly  rudeness  of  that 
"grind,  Fallon,  who  never  would  amount  to  any- 
thing in  the  college  world,  anyhow!" 

He  had  just  returned  from  a  very  important 
meeting,  he  told  me,  for  the  express  purpose  of 
having  that  heart-to-heart  talk  with  Fallon — and 
the  big,  uncouth  beggar  didn't  appreciate  it  at 
all.  No  wonder  some  fellows  never  did  get  along 
in  college — and  here  he  was,  absent  from  this 
most  important  meeting,  with  no  results  at  all. 

He  didn't  mind  telling  me — (here  his  voice 
died  down  into  an  impressive  whisper) — that 
it  was  from  a  fraternity  meeting  he  had  come. 
They  were  great  things,  these  fraternity  meetings. 
It  was  really  too  bad  that  I  had  never  been  able 
to  join  a  fraternity — but  then,  of  course,  I  must 
realize  that  fraternities  had  to  draw  the  line 
somewhere!  Now,  I  mustn't  take  that  as  a  re- 
flection on  me  personally — because  it  wasn't.  I 
was  all  right,  I  was — and  some  day,  he  was  sure, 
I  was  going  to  be  a  big  man  in  the  college 
world — bigger  than  he  himself  ever  hoped  to  be. 


COLLEGE  LIFE  139 

But  Jews  were  a  funny  people — and  I  must  ad- 
mit, if  I  wanted  to  be  fair,  that  some  of  them 
weren't  fit  to  come  to  college  at  all,  not  to  speak 
of  joining  fraternities. 

And  so  he  went  on,  until,  thoroughly  nau- 
seated by  the  bland  niceness  of  his  speech,  I 
followed  Fallon's  example  and  threw  him  out, 
though  he  refused  to  be  insulted  at  this  move, 
and  promised  to  come  around  the  next  night 
and  discuss  the  question  of  who  should  be 
elected  our  next  football  manager. 

A  little  while  after  he  was  gone,  Fallen  came 
across  the  hall  and  knocked  at  my  door.  It  was 
a  timid,  scared  sort  of  a  knock,  and  it  needed  a 
loud  and  repeated,  "Come  in,"  before  he  finally 
obeyed  my  summons. 

He  was  pitifully  wrought  up  over  the  incident. 
He  had  wanted  to  be  polite  to  Waters,  but  he 
had  had  to  study.  He  hadn't  wanted  to  insult 
him,  but  somehow  Waters  never  did  understand 
how  valuable  time  was,  and  what  it  would  mean 
to  Fallon's  mother  if  he  could  come  out  a  vale- 
dictorian at  the  end  of  our  four  years. 

"Which  would  you  rather  have,"  I  asked  him, 
"a  valedictory  or  a  friend?" 

He  stammered  a  good  deal  over  it.  He  knew 
that  Waters  was  right  about  that:  he  did  not 
have  a  single  friend  in  the  whole  college — didn't 
know  how  to  go  about  it — but  he  didn't  want 


140          THE  SEVEN-BRANCHED  CANDLESTICK 

such  men  as  Waters  trying  to  teach  him  the  way 
either. 

That  began  my  friendship  for  Fallen.  I  had 
acquaintances  enough  on  the  campus,  but  I  was 
almost  as  friendless  as  he — for  friendlessness,  I 
think,  is  not  so  much  a  matter  of  other  people's 
as  of  one's  own  habit  of  mind.  And  there  was 
something  so  grotesquely  miserable  about  his 
loneliness — something  so  like  a  grinning  gar- 
goyle, solitary  in  its  elevation — that  I  was  drawn 
to  him  without  much  conscious  effort. 

I  began  by  taking  him  for  long  walks.  It  was 
the  first  exercise  of  any  sort,  outside  of  the  re- 
quired freshman  gymnasium  course,  which  he  had 
had  in  college.  At  first  he  would  not  talk  at 
all ;  would  just  walk  beside  me  through  the  city's 
fringes  into  the  half-suburban  roads,  his  eyes 
drinking  in  the  green  vistas  as  if  they  were 
astounding  novelties,  his  breath  coming  fast  with 
exertion,  his  cheeks  glowing  with  new  color. 
Gradually  I  urged  him  into  talking — and,  like  all 
beginners,  he  talked  of  himself  entirely.  It  was 
good  for  him.  The  more  he  spoke  of  himself,  the 
more  highly  he  thought  of  himself.  He  needed 
pride. 

I  had  already  been  elected  an  editor  of  the  col- 
lege joke  paper.  I  was  qualified,  therefore,  to 
persuade  Fallen  to  contribute  what  he  could  to 
that  periodical.  But  he  had  not  a  jot  of  humor, 


COLLEGE  LIFE  141 

and  his  contributions  turned  out  to  be  very  long 
and  serious  bits  of  verse  in  studied  French 
rhyme  schemes.  I  did  not  even  risk  reading  them 
at  a  meeting  of  the  board,  but  always  turned  them 
over  to  Trevelyan  who  could  have  them  used  in 
the  coming  issue  of  the  other  magazine,  the  lite- 
rary monthly.  This  set  Fallen  writing  entirely 
for  the  "lit,"  as  we  called  it — and,  as  a  result, 
when  the  elections  to  that  paper  were  announced 
in  the  middle  of  the  sophomore  year,  Fallon's 
name  and  mine  stood  together. 

But  the  happiest  inspiration  came  to  me  one 
Sunday  when  at  noon  Fallen  and  I  were  resting 
atop  the  Palisades,  whither  we  had  gone  upon  an 
all-day  tramp.  I  watched  him  pick  up  a  flat  rock 
and  sent  it  sailing  out  and  down  through  space. 
His  long  thin  arm  gave  the  toss  a  surprising 
power. 

I  asked  him,  had  he  ever  seen  a  discus.  He 
said,  "No." 

The  next  day  I  had  overcome  all  his  scruples 
as  to  the  immodesty  of  a  track  costume  and  had 
led  him  out  upon  the  field  to  practice  with  the 
discus.  It  was  hard  work,  because  he  was  by  far 
the  clumsiest  man  I  have  ever  known.  Later  on 
I  interested  the  old  coach  on  his  behalf.  Be- 
fore Thanksgiving  Fallen  gave  promise  of  be- 
coming one  of  the  college's  best  discus  throwers. 

When  winter  began,  I  took  him  down  to  the 


i*2    THE  SEVEN-BRANCHED  CANDLESTICK 

gymnasium.  At  first  I  had  in  mind  only  to 
keep  him  in  good  condition;  but  his  handling 
of  the  heavy  medicine  ball  gave  me  another  idea. 
I  put  him  to  work  with  a  basketball — and  here 
the  training  I  had  given  the  young  boys  at  the 
settlement  served  me  in  good  stead.  He  was  so 
tall,  he  need  only  swing  up  his  arms  to  drop  the 
ball  into  the  basket.  He  was  the  ideal  build  for 
a  "center,"  and  our  'varsity  team  needed  a 
center. 

He  did  not  make  the  Varsity — not  that  year, 
anyhow.  But  he  did  make  our  class  team,  and 
won  his  numerals. 

Also  when  spring  came  in,  he  was  chosen  as 
one  of  the  track  team's  discus  throwers.  Add 
to  this  the  fact  that  he  had  lately  been  elected  to 
the  board  of  the  literary  monthly,  and  it  will  be 
seen  that  Fallen  had  had  a  skyrocket  rise.  No 
wonder  that  Waters,  the  genial,  now  forgot  that 
autumn  affront  and  paid  nightly  visits  upon  his 
particular  friend  Fallen.  And  Fallen,  of  course, 
having  had  his  attention  diverted  into  so  many 
foreign  channels,  no  longer  cared  so  singularly 
for  his  studies,  but  was  willing  to  receive  Waters 
and  such  as  Waters  with  an  ever-increasing 
cordiality. 

The  inevitable  happened.  Fallen,  exhibiting 
his  latest  development — a  full-sized,  roistering 
swagger — came  into  my  room  one  evening  and 


COLLEGE  LIFE  143 

told  me  jubilantly  that  lie  was  pledged  to  join 
Waters'  fraternity. 

"It's  not  the  best  in  college,"  he  admitted 
loftily,  "but  it'll  tone  up  a  bit  when  I  get  the 
track  captaincy  and  Waters  gets  elected  to  a 
managership." 

"And  how  about  that  senior  year  valedictory?" 
I  asked  him. 

"Oh,  I  was  a  fool  in  those  days,  wasn't  I?" 

He  mistook  my  silence.  "Say,  old  chap,"  he 
went  on,  "this  is  no  time  for  you  to  be  jealous 
of  me.  I  know  well  enough,  you  ought  to  be  in 
a  fraternity — in  the  very  best  one.  I  wish  I 
could  get  you  into  ours — but,  say,  you  know  how 
it  is  about  Jews." 

Yes,  I  knew,  I  assured  him,  and  gave  him  the 
heartiest  hand-clasp  I  could  manage. 

"You  know,  my  mother's  going  to  be  awfully 
proud  of  this,"  he  exclaimed  huskily. 

But  though  Waters  did  succeed  in  winning 
himself  a  team  managership,  Fallen  never  be- 
came the  captain  of  the  track  team.  For  his 
election  to  that  fraternity  meant  his  ruin.  He 
lost  his  grip  upon  everything.  Perhaps  ?t  was 
his  fellow-members,  perhaps  he  had  only  himself 
to  blame.  He  began  to  drink.  At  the  end  of 
junior  year  he  was  expelled  from  college. 

And  I  wondered  if  the  mother,  who  had  wanted 
him  to  be  the  class  valedictorian,  was  as  proud 
of  him  as  ever. 


XVI 
THE  HUN'S  INVASION 

So  far  in  my  college  course  I  had  met  with 
actually  little  outspoken  insult.  Once  or  twice 
in  my  freshman  year  some  loutish  sophomore  had 
not  stopped  at  making  comments  upon  my  re- 
ligion. There  had  been  that  incident  at  Trevel- 
yan's  fraternity  house,  too.  But,  generally  speak- 
ing, the  prejudice  had  been  of  a  negative  sort, 
restricting  rather  than  driving — though  none  the 
less  offensive  and  chafing  on  that  account.  There 
was  nothing  on  which  I  could  actually  lay  my  fin- 
ger to  complain.  I  had  no  actual  proof  that  I  had 
been  kept  off  any  college  organization  because  of 
my  religion.  I  might  have  had,  had  I  cared  at  the 
time  to  follow  up  the  favoritism  shown  in  the  dra- 
matic society — but  that  was  a  small  affair,  by 
now,  and  I  preferred  to  let  it  rest  forgotten. 

Otherwise,  I  was  treated  with  a  fair  amount 
of  kindness  by  almost  all  of  the  college.  The 
members  of  my  own  class,  in  which  I  was  gradu- 
ally acquiring  such  positions  as  work  and  merit 
could  win  me,  had  begun  to  show  me  a  good, 
clean  respect;  and  those  in  the  class  above  soon 

144 


THE  HUN'S  INVASION  145 

followed  their  lead.  All  that  I  asked  was  fair 
play,  and  the  chance  to  overcome  that  handicap 
which  I  knew  existed.  This  was  easier,  now 
that  I  lived  at  college,  and  I  gave  to  the  various 
activities  in  which  I  was  interested,  all  the  spare 
time  which  1  could  afford  from  my  studies.  I 
was  beginning  to  realize  what  that  preachment 
meant :  "The  college  will  give  you  back  all  that 
you  give  to  it  in  work." 

Thus,  at  the  end  of  my  sophomore  year,  when 
I  again  went  to  the  settlement  for  the  summer, 
I  was  planning  big  and  enthusiastic  things  for 
the  autumn  term. 

Mr.  Richards  placed  me  in  charge  of  one  of 
the  settlement's  fresh-air  camps,  up  the  state. 
I  had  two  other  boys  to  help  me  in  my  work, 
and  one  of  them  was  Frank  Cohen.  It  had  taken 
me  a  long  time  to  overcome  Frank's  sensitive- 
ness, after  his  encounter  with  my  aunt;  but  we 
were  fast  friends  again  now,  and  it  was  good  to 
have  him  with  me  where  I  could  help  him  with 
his  daily  noon-time  studying  for  his  "prelim- 
inaries." When  the  fall  came,  he  passed  them 
easily — and  it  was  now  definitely  decided  that 
he  would  enter  my  college  when  I  was  a  senior. 

My  own  return  to  the  university,  however, 
gave  me  an  unpleasant  shock.  I  had  arrived  a 
few  days  late,  because  I  had  wanted  to  help  Mr. 
Richards  with  some  of  his  coining  year's  pro- 


146          THE  SEVEN-BRANCHED  CANDLESTICK 

grams.  The  campus  was  already  alive  and 
crowded,  therefore,  and  the  dormitory  windows 
were  all  thrown  open  and  overflowing  with  the 
rugs  and  chair  cushions  of  autumn  cleaning. 
The  campus  teemed  with  a  thousand  youths  who 
grasped  each  other  cordially  by  the  wrist  and 
went  through  all  sorts  of  contortions  to  prove 
that  they  "were  glad  to  see  you,  old  man !" 

But  there  was  a  difference !  The  first  glimpse 
I  had  of  it,  I  called  myself  a  self-conscious  fool. 
I  tried  to  reassure  myself,  everybody's  greeting 
had  been  as  cordial  as  I  could  expect.  Every- 
body had  said  he  was  glad  to  see  me — and — yet ! 

Then,  the  second  day  that  I  was  at  college,  I 
had  my  first  proof  of  the  truth  of  my  suspicions. 
I  had  it  through  eavesdropping — but  I  was  jus- 
tified. For  I  heard  little  Waters,  the  genial 
popularist,  talking  of  it  to  another  classmate  in 
front  of  the  laboratory  steps. 

"It's  a  rotten  shame,"  he  was  declaiming. 
"Haven't  you  noticed?  I  don't  see  how  it  could 
escape  you!.  Jews  and  Jews!  The  freshman 
class  is  just  swarming  with  'em!" 

"What?    Really?" 

"Honestly.  If  there's  one  Jew  in  the  freshman 
class,  there  are  fifty.  And  such  Jewy-looking 
Jews !" 

"Gee  whizz,  it's  a  disgrace.  It  was  bad  enough 
when  they  used  to  come  in  four  or  five — or  even 


THE  HUN'S  INVASION  147 

ten — in  a  class.     But  fifty!     Are  there  really 
fifty?" 

"Oh,  easily !  Maybe  a  hundred — I  don't  know. 
They  are  swarming  all  over  the  place!  Gosh, 
we'll  have  to  do  something  to  get  rid  of  them. 
It  just  simply  ruins  the  college  name  to  have 
so  many  of  them  around." 

"You  bet!    A  campaign  for  ours!" 

I  watched  them  going  off  together,  arm  in  arm, 
towards  "fraternity  row" — and  wondered  what 
that  campaign  would  be. 

It  did  not  take  me  long  to  investigate  the  real 
state  of  affairs.  There  were  some  thirty  mem- 
bers of  the  freshman  class  listed  in  the  dean's 
office  under  the  designation  of  "Jew,"  "Hebrew" 
or  "Ethical  Culturist,"  And  the  faces  that  I 
met  under  freshman  caps  were  certainly  Semitic, 
to  a  large  percentage. 

At  first  it  annoyed  me.  Annoyed  me  more, 
too,  when  the  first  member  of  the  freshman  class 
to  be  expelled  for  ungentlemanly  conduct  was 
a  Jew.  There  were  one  or  two  others,  I  noticed, 
who  would  sooner  or  later  reach  the  same  end 
if  they  did  not  keep  away  from  the  city  at  night 
— and  from  the  things  the  city  teaches. 

These  one  or  two  gradually  became  scape-goats 
for  the  rest  of  the  Jewish  boys  in  the  class. 
They  were  sons  of  rich  fathers;  they  paraded 
their  automobiles  about  the  campus — and  thus 


148          THE  SEVEN-BRANCHED  CANDLESTICK 

broke  the  rule  number  one  in  the  "freshman 
bible."  They  had  unbridled  tongues,  and  used 
them  ungraciously.  One  of  them,  a  big,  swag- 
gering chap,  "went  out"  for  his  class  football 
team — and,  having  been  selected  to  play  in  a  mi- 
nor game,  developed  a  dying  aunt  overnight  and 
disappeared  for  the  day.  When  he  came  back, 
on  Sunday  night,  he  was  caught  and  hazed. 
His  automobile  was  dumped  on  its  side  in  the 
middle  of  the  campus.  His  face,  when  I  saw 
him  the  next  day,  was  a  network  of  plaster 
strips.  Three  days  after  that  he  left  college — 
and  I,  for  one,  was  devoutly  thankful  for  his 
resigning.  He  did  not  belong  in  our  college, 
had  done  nothing  to  fit  himself  into  its  environ- 
ment, had  talked  loudly,  acted  the  cad  and  the 
coward — and  had  reaped  the  reward  of  such  a 
person,  Jew  or  Gentile,  in  whatever  community. 

The  persecution — for  it  had  taken  on  propor- 
tions worthy  of  that  name — went  forward,  how- 
ever. There  was  an  annual  "freshman  parade," 
for  instance,  when  the  entering  class  was  dressed 
in  grotesque  costumes  and  sent  marching  in  and 
out  a  lane  of  laughing  spectators  to  the  football 
field.  In  my  own  freshman  year  this  was  a 
goodnatured  affair — and  each  class,  including 
the  victimized  one,  took  it  for  the  boisterous 
joke  that  it  was. 

But  this  year,  when  tlie  parade  was  starting 


THE  HUN'S  INVASION  149 

at  the  gymnasium,  and  the  big,  card-board  pla- 
cards were  being  lifted  to  the  marchers'  shoul- 
ders, I  noticed  that  all  the  Jewish  boys  were 
being  put  conspicuously  into  one  group.  They 
would  march  together.  And  those  placards! 
The  sickening  succession  of  them  was  only  a 
repetition  of  "Oi  oi"  and  the  pawnbroker's  sym- 
bol— and  humor  of  that  high  order.  And  these 
Jewish  freshmen  went  down  the  street  amid  the 
jeering — and  I  had  to  stand  by  and  see  them, 
some  with  heads  high  and  eyes  blazing  with 
pride,  others  stumbling  and  bowed,  one  of  them 
with  tears  running  inanely  down  his  cheeks — had 
to  stand  there  and  watch  it  all,  and  curse  my- 
self for  a  coward  because  I  would  not,  could  not, 
go  out  into  the  middle  of  the  road  and  tear  down, 
one  by  one,  the  daubed,  cheap  jests  that  they 
had  to  carry. 

A  few  weeks  later  there  was  another  such  cel- 
ebration. There  were  speeches  to  be  made.  The 
class  wits — and  what  class  is  without  them? — 
were  to  have  their  turn. 

And  their  wit — what  did  it  consist  of?  One 
after  another,  they  made  blunt,  exaggerated  ref- 
erences to  the  Invasion  of  the  Huns,"  to  the 
"Jews  coming  unto  Jordan,"  to  "the  lost  Ten 
Tribes  .  .  ."  and  hoots  of  applause  went  up  to 
the  night  sky  like  the  roar  of  a  Philistine  army ! 

One  of  the  men  who  spoke  was  a  class-mate 


150          THE  SEVEN-BRANCHED  CANDLESTICK 

of  mine — a  fellow-member  of  the  joke  paper's 
board.  I  knew  him  well,  for  he  had  been  to  see 
me  often.  It  was  only  a  few  nights  ago  that  he 
had  told  me  he  was  chosen  to  speak  at  this  cele- 
bration, and  had  promised  me  he  would  make  no 
reference  to  the  Jewish  influx. 

"I  don't  agree  with  you  about  it,"  he  had 
said.  "You're  too  sensitive,  all  you  Jews — and 
anyhow,  you  know  perfectly  well  we're  not  aim- 
ing this  campaign  at  you  personally.  It's  against 
this  big  bunch  of  them  in  the  freshman  class." 

"So  it's  a  regular  campaign,  is  it?"  I  de- 
manded. 

He  evaded  the  question — but  satisfied  me  with 
his  promise. 

But  when  I  heard  him  break  it — heard  him, 
more  than  any  other  speaker,  launch  one  smil- 
ing epithet  after  another  against  the  "sons  of 
Abraham,  Isaac  and  Jacob,"  I  lost  all  the  gnaw- 
ing consciousness  that  I  had  had  as  to  the  justice 
of  this  remark  about  Jewish  sensitiveness — and 
I  went  forward  to  the  cart-end  from  which  he 
was  speaking.  I  meant  to  pull  him  down  and 
get  up  there  in  his  place,  and  to  speak  hotly, 
straight  from  the  shoulder — I  didn't  care  what 
I  said  so  long  as  I  put  them  all  to  disgrace! 

But  when  I  was  within  a  few  feet  of  him  in 
the  jostling,  laughing  crowd,  I  could  go  no  fur- 
ther. I  tried  to  cry  out,  but  that  was  denied  ma 


THE  HUN'S  INVASION  151 

My  courage  gave  me  only  the  power  to  glare  and 
sneer  at  him — and  once,  as  he  spoke,  he  looked 
down  and  saw  my  face,  I  think.  For  his  own 
grew  paler  in  the  light  of  the  gas  lantern  which 
flared  windily  beside  him,  and  he  faltered  in  his 
speech. 

Later  on  he  came  over  to  my  room  and  asked 
to  speak  to  me.  I  heard  him  through;  listened 
to  his  smooth  explanation  about  the  committee 
of  arrangements  demanding  that  he  put  some- 
thing into  his  speech  about  the  Jews — and  he 
was  sorry  he  had  broken  his  word  to  me — only, 
of  course,  I  was  to  consider  myself  an  exception 
to  all  this  sort  of  thing.  Everybody  knew  I  was 
a  good  fellow  and  was  doing  bully  work  for  the 
name  of  the  college — and  what  right  had  I  to  class 
myself  with  these  insignificant  little  Jews  in  the 
Freshman  class?  and  he  didn't  want  it  to  break 
up  our  friendship,  because  he  thought  the  world 
of  me. 

And  so  I  showed  him  the  door. 

The  next  day  I  began  to  pay  for  that  stroke  of 
arrogance.  The  classmates  who  belonged  to  that 
man's  fraternity  snubbed  me  on  the  street. 

It  didn't  matter  much,  I  thought — but  in  real- 
ity, it  did.  Because  these  men,  as  it  happened, 
had  been  my  closest  friends.  I  was  beginning  to 
worry  myself  into  a  maudlin  state,  and  no  doubt 
did  attribute  hostility  to  altogether  too  many  of 


152          THE  SEVEN-BRANCHED  CANDLESTICK 

the  undergraduates.  But  it  is  hard  to  choose 
and  distinguish  surely  in  a  land  that  is  gener- 
ally hostile  and  strange.  I  began  to  stay  more 
and  more  within  the  shelter  of  my  room,  work- 
ing at  my  studies  and  at  those  activities  which 
had  already  given  me  recognition.  I  wanted  to 
be  plucky  about  it.  I  wanted  to  keep  on  smil- 
ing— but  there  were  times,  I  must  confess,  when 
I  wished  that  I  were  through  with  college  and 
all  its  rough-and-tumble  boyishness. 

I  did  not  care  so  much  myself.  There  were 
all  these  freshmen  who  were  probably  ten  times 
lonelier  than  I  was,  ten  times  more  bewildered 
and  disheartened  by  the  welcome  they  had  had. 
I  tried  to  visit  as  many  of  them  as  lived  in  dor- 
mitories. I  wanted  to  talk  things  over  with 
them,  to  help  them  in  some  possible  way.  But 
it  wasn't  much  of  a  success — I  could  make  no 
progress  out  of  condonement  and  asking  them 
to  wait  patiently  until  the  foolish  campaign  had 
dwindled  away. 

Then,  one  day,  as  I  crossed  the  campus  to  a 
first  recitation,  I  saw  that  the  brick  walls  of 
the  oldest  of  the  dormitories  had  been  adorned 
with  huge  painted  letters: 

"OUT  WITH  THE  JEWS." 

I  went  into  a  telephone  booth  and  called  up 
the  house  of  one  of  the  professors  with  whom 


THE  HUN'S  INVASION  153 

I  had  become  friendly.    He  was  a  kindly,  well- 
meaning  man,  and  an  alumnus  of  the  college. 

His  telephone  line  was  busy  when  I  called  it. 
I  heard  him  talking  with  some  one.  I  was  about 
to  ring  off  when  suddenly  I  heard  my  own  name 
mentioned. 

The  professor  was  an  alumnus  member  of  one 
of  the  college  fraternities.  And  this  other  man 
— evidently  an  undergraduate,  though  I  never 
tried  to  identify  him — was  asking  the  professor 
what  he  thought  of  offering  me  an  election  to 
this  fraternity. 

And  I  heard  the  professor  sigh  in  his  patient 
way. 

"I  like  him — I  like  him  very  much,  mind  you," 
I  heard  him  say,  "but — er,  er — I  do  think  it  would 
be  disastrous — nothing  short  of  disastrous  to 
elect  a  -Yew  to  any  of  our  fraternities  in  the 
present  situation." 

I  rang  off.  It  was  something  to  know  that 
I  was  even  being  considered  for  membership — 
but  it  was  disastrous,  that  was  all — disastrous! 

When  I  was  out  upon  the  campus  again  I  saw 
that  painters  were  already  at  work  obliterating 
the  sign.  They  had  whitewashed  the  "Out  With 
the"  away,  and  there  was  nothing  left  upon  the 
wall  but  a  huge,  red 

"JEWS." 

And  thank  God,  I  could  laugh  at  the  incident ! 


XVII 

MANY  IMPULSES 

FAIB  play  comes  first — and  reasoning  follows 
it.  For  fair  play  is  always  an  impulse.  It  comes 
when  least  expected. 

That  is  how  it  was  at  the  university.  The  in- 
cident of  the  big,  painted  sign  was  practically 
the  last  demonstration  against  the  influx  of  Jew- 
ish boys.  Waters,  who  made  capital  of  every- 
thing, attempted  to  found  a  formal  organization 
dignified  by  the  title  of  the  Anti-Hebrew  Col- 
legiate League,  but  when,  at  the  first  meeting, 
he  was  not  elected  to  the  presidency,  abandoned 
the  project  with  bitter  complaints  against  the 
ingratitude  of  his  fellow  members.  A  little  later 
on,  when  the  tide  had  turned  in  the  opposite 
direction,  he  became  the  head  of  the  Helping 
Hand  League,  and  was  atop  the  wave  of  con- 
trition. 

For  the  tide  did  turn.  Men  are  always  afraid 
to  carry  their  propaganda  beyond  the  point  of 
the  ridiculous.  When  tomfoolery  turns  to  fool- 
ishness its  perpetrators  are  only  too  anxious 
for  a  chance  to  abandon  it. 

154 


MANY  IMPULSES  155 

It  was  impossible  to  keep  the  thing  out  of  the 
newspapers.  The  day  after  that  sign  incident, 
there  was  a  lurid  story  to  be  read  at  each  of 
the  city's  breakfast  tables  and  in  the  evening 
subways.  New  York  took  it  up  and  made  it  a 
matter  of  shocked  debate  for  a  day  and  a  half. 
The  president  of  the  university,  in  his  quarterly 
sermon  in  chapel,  spoke  fervently  of  toleration 
and  the  gentle  spirit. 

The  reaction  was  almost  as  hysterical  as  the 
movement  itself.  The  little  Jewish  freshmen — 
timid,  frightened  little  mice,  who  had  been  going 
about  their  class-room  work  and  scurrying  home 
and  out  of  reach  for  so  many  months — suddenly 
found  themselves  lauded  as  martyrs,  as  the  best 
of  fellows. 

One  evening  a  deputation  of  them  were  wait- 
ing for  me  when  I  came  in  from  supper.  They 
had  formed  a  Jewish  fraternity,  and  wished  me 
to  join  with  them.  Appeal  to  a  Jewish  phil- 
anthropist had  brought  them  enough  money  to 
lease  a  house  near  the  campus.  They  were  sure 
that  they  would  have  sanction  and  support  from 
the  rest  of  the  college,  now  that  the  prejudice 
had  abated.  And  since  they  could  not  join  any 
of  the  other  fraternities,  why  should  they  not 
have  one  of  their  own? 

I  thought  it  over  carefully.  I  wanted  to  be 
fair  to  myself  as  well  as  to  them.  That  same 


156          THE  SEVEN-BRANCHED  CANDLESTICK 

old  repugnance  of  being  identified  with  a  dis- 
tinctly Jewish,  propaganda  troubled  me  and  made 
me  turn  from  them.  And  yet  it  wasn't  only 
that,  either.  For  when  I  thought  it  out,  I  knew 
that,  according  to  my  point  of  view,  theirs  was 
not  the  proper  solution.  Fire  can  fight  fire, 
perhaps — in  proverbs,  anyhow — but  discrimina- 
tion is  not  to  be  overpowered  by  a  like  amount 
of  secularity.  If  Jewish  college  men  objected 
to  that  unwritten  rule  of  fraternities;  if  they 
contended  that  fraternities  should  be  democratic ; 
if  they  wanted  equal  rights  in  those  fraternities 
.  .  .  how,  then,  were  they  justified  in  stand- 
ing apart  and  founding  a  fraternity  of  their  own 
— a  brotherhood  which  should  be  open  only  to 
Jews? 

That  is  what  I  thought.  I  may  have  been 
wrong — and  the  excellent  records  of  the  Jewish 
fraternity  chapters  in  various  colleges  and  uni- 
versities do  perhaps  prove  me  wrong — but  I 
could  not  bring  myself  to  join  them.  I  was 
heartily  glad  the  whole  heated  question  of  race 
and  race  prejudice  was  abated.  I  asked,  for 
myself,  only  that  I  be  given  something  of  the 
fair-play  that  other  men  had.  I  was  working 
hard  for  the  college.  I  was  doing  all  that  my 
talents  enabled  me  to  do  and  I  was  sure 
that,  sooner  or  later,  there  would  be  the  reward. 

This  reward  did  come,  definitely.    It  came  at 


MANY  IMPULSES  157 

the  end  of  May  when,  at  the  height  of  the  re- 
action against  the  whole  year  of  prejudice,  I 
was  chosen  for  the  college  senior  society.  It 
was  a  public  election,  held  on  the  afternoon  of 
one  of  the  most  important  baseball  games.  There 
were  crowds  to  watch  the  ceremony — students 
and  graduates,  young  girls  and  parents  .  .  . 
so  that  the  memory  of  the  green  campus  and 
the  banks  of  pretty  gowns  and  parasols,  the 
sunshine  and  the  cheering  will  be  with  me  till 
I  die.  I  remember  that  there  were  tears  in 
my  eyes  as  I  was  chosen  .  .  .  and  that  there 
came  to  me,  with  all  the  cool  freshness  of  the 
spring  winds,  the  thought  that  this  was  the  end, 
the  salvation  from  out  of  all  the  year's  mean, 
squalid  troubles.  Here  was  I,  a  Jew,  raised 
above  all  the  other  Jews  who  had  ever  entered 
this  college  .  .  .  raised  among  the  highest, 
to  be  a  power  in  the  land,  to  be  the  champion 
of  all  those  who  had  suffered,  the  winner  through 
hardship  and  handicap,  a  vindicated  Dreyfus, 
an  example  to  all  the  lower  classes.  .  .  . 
For,  at  twenty-one,  alas,  we  are  our  own  best 
heroes,  and  none  can  take  our  place! 

College  closed  in  a  blaze  of  glory  for  me. 
There  was  even  a  note  from  Aunt  Selina  Haber- 
man,  wishing  me  well  of  this  new  honor  and 
informing  me  that  "Mrs.  Fleming-Cohen,  when 
she  heard  it,  was  green  with  envy !"  Aunt  Selina 


158          THE  SEVEN-BRANCHED  CANDLESTICK 

wanted  to  know,  was  I  going  to  be  a  wicked 
boy,  however,  and  stay  away  from  her  all  next 
year,  too.  She  was  sure  that,  now  I  had  won 
out,  we  could  get  along  much  more  smoothly 
than  we  had. 

I  fear  I  began  to  think  a  little  too  highly  of 
my  position  in  the  community.  I  was  now  cap- 
able of  going  to  no  less  a  person  than  the  dean 
of  the  college  and  talking  over  with  him,  as  if 
man  to  man,  the  possibility  of  an  anti-Jewish 
agitation,  the  next  year,  and  demanding  in  none 
too  deferential  tones  that,  should  it  come,  the 
college  authorities  must  do  their  share  to  stamp 
it  out. 

"Really,  Mr.-er-er-, — what's  your  name?" 

I  told  him  very  slowly,  but  it  did  not  mean 
much  to  him.  I  rather  pitied  the  old  gentleman 
for  not  paying  more  attention  to  the  under- 
graduate contests  and  triumphs. 

But  he  did  hear  me  out,  and  gave  me  inform- 
ation which  I  thought  worth  acting  on.  The 
large  majority  of  the  Jewish  boys  in  the  fresh- 
man class  had  prepared  for  college  at  one  school 
— a  large  private  preparatory  school  in  New 
York  City.  Perhaps  it  would  be  as  well,  sug- 
gested the  dean,  for  me  to  go  to  the  principal 
of  this  school  and  talk  things  over  with  him. 

"Do  you  mean,  I  should  warn  him  against 
sending  so  many  of  his  boys  to  our  college?"  I 
asked. 


MANY  IMPULSES  159 

The  dean  appeared  dreadfully  shocked.  "Oh, 
no — dear  me,  no.  That  wouldn't  do  at  all.  Only 
— well,  it  seems  that  this  school  caters  almost 
entirely  to  the  sons  of  wealthy  Jewish  men — 
and  that  this  principal  is  very  fond  of  our  col- 
lege .  .  .  and  so  he  grievously  sends  us  all 
the  boys  that  he  can.  You  know,  so  many  boys 
don't  know  where  to  go  to  college — and  the  prin- 
cipal often  has  a  chance  to  suggest  one,  don't 
you  see!" 

The  dean  had  a  very  sober  face,  but  his  eyes 
were  twinkling.  It  relieved  me  to  know,  he  was 
not  taking  this  principal's  bad  judgment  too 
seriously. 

"So  you  think  it  would  be  wiser  if  there  weren't 
so  many  Jewish  boys  in  next  year's  entering 
class?" 

"Precise — oh,  no,  I  shouldn't  dare  say  that, 
even  if  I  thought  so.  Remember,  I  am  in  an 
official  capacity  here.  But  come  around  to  my 
house  tonight,  when  I've  doffed  my  scholastic 
robe  and  am  in  my  shirt  sleeves — and  perhaps 
I'll  tell  you,  then,  the  name  of  that  principal." 

I  did  not  even  bother  to  do  this.  Without 
waiting  for  further  advice,  I  went  down  to  this 
school  to  beard  the  foolish  principal  in  his  den. 

It  was  a  hard  matter  to  work  my  way  into  his 
presence.  He  had  an  office  and  inner  office, 
and  stenographers  to  guard  them  both.  I 


180          THE  SEVEN-BRANCHED  CANDLESTICK 

wrote  on  my  card,  however,  that  I  wished  to 
speak  to  him  regarding  affairs  at  my  college,  and 
evidently  piqued  his  curiosity  to  the  extent  of 
his  giving  me  the  interview. 

In  that  inner  office  I  found  a  youngish  man 
whose  face  was  adorned  with  a  heavy  black  beard. 
He  seemed  strangely  familiar,  but  I  could  not 
place  him. 

"Come  in,"  he  said,  looking  hard  at  me.  His 
restless  eyes  did  not  leave  my  face  all  the  while 
I  was  talking. 

"What  is  it  you  want  me  to  do?"  he  asked 
me  when  I  had  given  him  some  stumbling  hint 
of  my  mission. 

"I  think  you  ought  to  keep  Jewish  boys  out 
of  my  college,"  I  told  him.  "It — it  isn't  alto- 
gether fair,  and  it  would  only  provoke  a  re- 
newal of  the  prejudice,  if  there  should  be  as 
many  freshmen  next  year  as  there  were  this." 

"You  are  a  Jew  yourself,"  he  said  accusingly. 

"Yes,  I  am.  But  don't  judge  by  me.  .  .  . 
I  have  always  been  an  exception  to  all  that  pre- 
judice." 

"Oh,  have  you?    I  wonder  why?" 

I  resented  his  tone,  but  went  on  to  explain 
how  I  had  entered  college  long  before  the  an- 
tagonism had  broken  out ;  had  worked  hard,  with 
Christian  friends  to  help  me,  until  I  had  won 
honors  which  assured  me  immunity  from  any 
unpleasantness. 


MANY  IMPULSES  161 

"I  congratulate  you,"  he  said  dryly.  "You 
no  doubt  deserve  these  honors.  Your  sort  al- 
ways does." 

I  stood  up  angrily  and  looked  him  square  in 
the  face.  Then  suddenly  I  recognized  him.  .  .  . 
Pictures  of  my  public  school  days  came  up  be- 
fore me.  .  .  .  The  class  room  and  the  big, 
crippled  bully,  Geoghen.  .  .  .  That  finding 
of  the  Hebrew  prayer  book  when  the  teacher  was 
out  of  the  room,  and  the  hooting  and  mocking 
.  ..  .  and  then  the  teacher's  return — and  the 
fight. 

It  was  Mr.  Levi. 

He  smiled  when  he  saw  that  I  knew  him,  now. 
"I  remembered  you  more  readily,"  he  said.  "You 
have  no  beard  to  change  your  appearance."  But 
it  was  more  than  his  beard :  there  was  a  complete 
change  in  him  from  the  dreamy,  pale  young  man 
who  had  learned  so  harsh  a  lesson  in  those  old 
days.  There  was  a  bitter  twist  to  his  mouth. 
His  lips  were  set  sternly,  his  eyebrows  were 
lowered,  his  brow  crossed  by  scowling  lines. 

"There's  one  thing  about  you  that  I  remem- 
ber," he  snapped  at  me.  "You  were  a  Jew — and 
yet  you  stood  aside  and  let  those  little  cads  take 
the  book  of  God  and  make  nasty  fun  of  it — and 
never  raised  your  hand  or  even  your  voice  to 
stop  them.  That's  the  sort  of  boy  you  were. 
And,  I  suppose,  you're  still  the  same.  It'd  seem 


162          THE  SEVEN-BRANCHED  CANDLESTICK 

so,  anyhow.  You  probably  won  all  your  college 
honors  through  standing  aside.  And  now  you 
have  the  audacity  to  ask  me  to  do  the  same,  lest 
you  be  made  uncomfortable  by  the  number  of 
other  Jewish  boys  at  your  college.  You  want 
me  to  stand  aside,  do  you?  Well,  I  wish  I  had 
a  thousand  Jewish  boys  to  enter  into  your  col- 
lege's next  year's  class !" 

He  glared  at  me.  "If  you  want  to  know  the 
truth,  I  can't  get  a  single  boy  in  my  school  to  go 
to  your  college,  now.  I  wish  I  could.  Because 
I'm  training  them  to  fight  like  men.  They  aren't 
the  sort  who  win  honors  by  allowing  themselves 
to  be  classed  as  exceptions.  .  .  ." 

As  for  myself,  I  knew  that  he  was  half  wrong, 
half  right — and  that  there  was  nothing  more  for 
me  to  say.  I  had  learned  what  I  came  to  learn. 
So  I  got  up  to  go. 

"And  if  there's  another  such  demonstration, 
next  year,"  he  sneered,  "you  and  your  precious 
honors  will  have  to  stand  aside  again,  eh?  It 
must  keep  you  very  light  on  your  feet!" 


xvin 

I  STAND— BUT  NOT  ASIDE 

THUS  it  happened  that  only  five  Jews  enrolled 
in  the  entering  freshman  class.  One  of  them, 
of  course,  was  Frank  Cohen. 

Mr.  Levi's  accusations  had  stung  deeply.  My 
anger  at  them  was  all  the  more  intense  because 
my  heart  admitted  half  their  truth.  Neverthe- 
less, I  was  glad  to  see  that  there  could  be  no 
possible  aggravation  this  year :  surely,  with  only 
five  Jewish  freshmen,  the  percentage  would  be 
small  and  unnoticed.  It  was  all  very  well,  that 
venom  of  Mr.  Levi's — but  it  was  unreasonable. 
I  would  be  glad  if  the  Jewish  question  would 
never  again  be  mentioned  during  my  college 
course. 

The  opening  of  the  senior  year  found  Frank 
Cohen  and  me  on  the  Palisades,  talking  eagerly 
of  what  his  college  course  would  mean  to  him. 
He  made  me  smile,  his  dreams  were  so  like  my 
own  had  been  when  I,  too,  was  a  freshman. 
Made  me  wonder,  too,  how  much  I  had  fulfilled 
those  dreams.  Something  accomplished,  yes — 
and  as  much  unfulfilled,  disregarded,  left  un- 

163 


164          THE  SEVEN-BRANCHED  CANDLESTICK 

done.  Well,  perhaps,  in  this  last  year,  I  would 
have  the  chance  again — and  would  not  flinch. 

The  chance  came  just  two  days  after  the  open- 
ing of  college.  It  came  when  Frank  Cohen  burst 
into  my  room  about  nine  o'clock  at  night,  in  com- 
pany with  another  Jewish  freshman.  The  other 
one  was  dogged,  frightened,  and,  when  he  was 
behind  my  closed  door,  began  to  cry  noiselessly. 
As  for  Frank,  who  was  made  of  stronger  stuff, 
he  sat  silent  in  his  chair,  grasping  its  arms  and 
trying  to  control  the  intensity  of  some  revulsion 
which  had  come  over  him. 

They  told  me  quickly  what  had  happened. 
They  were  just  from  a  meeting  of  freshman  can- 
didates for  the  college  newspaper.  The  meeting 
had  been  called  in  order  to  instruct  these  can- 
didates in  the  rules  and  qualifications  of  the 
competition.  All  men  who  cared  to  enter  the 
competition  had  been  invited.  Two  men  had 
made  speeches:  the  editor-in-chief  and  the  man- 
aging editor  of  the  paper,  Sayer  and  Braley  by 
name. 

These  had  been  cordial  speeches,  urging  all 
men  present  at  the  meeting  to  work  hard  in 
this  competition.  There  had  been  speeches  of 
encouragement,  in  glowing  colors — and  then,  at 
the  end  of  it  all,  in  front  of  the  fifty-odd  youths 
who  were  assembled  there,  Braley  had  closed 
his  speech  with  this: 


I  STAND— BUT  NOT  ASIDE  165 

<fWe  wish  to  say  that  any  Jew  who  may  have 
it  in  mind  to  enter  this  competition  might  as 
well  save  himself  the  pains.  We  shall  not  even 
consider  the  election  of  a  Jew  to  the  board." 

Immediately  a  gasp,  then  a  snicker  had  run 
through  the  roomful ;  then  necks  had  craned  and 
heads  turned  to  catch  looks  at  Frank  and  the 
other  freshman  who  stood,  flushed  and  humili- 
ated, in  their  midst. 

Then  the  meeting  had  broken  up,  and  the  other 
candidates,  taking  their  cue  from  Braley's  speech, 
stood  aside  to  let  Frank  and  his  companion  pass 
down  through  whispering,  giggling  aisles.  They 
had  tried  to  go  calmly,  unconcernedly,  as  if  the 
shock  of  the  insult  meant  nothing  to  them.  But 
the  other  Jewish  freshman  had  broken  down, 
and  Frank  had  to  put  his  arm  around  him  to 
keep  him  up  and  straight  upon  his  path  through 
the  crowd's  midst,  out  upon  the  campus  and 
over  to  my  dormitory. 

I  sat  a  little  while  silent  after  I  heard  them 
tell  of  it.  I  was  as  much  stunned  as  they — 
and  sickened  too.  I  had  thought  all  that  sort 
of  thing  was  done  with.  I  had  hoped  it  was  all 
past,  even  forgotten — and  here  it  was,  leaping 
up  again  to  confront,  to  threaten,  to  jeer  at  us. 
I  had  only  dimly  imagined  the  possibility  of  it. 
I  had  no  plan,  no  hint  of  how  I  should  go  about 
it. 


168          THE  SEVEN-BRANCHED  CANDLESTICK 

Two  years  ago,  if  this  had  happened,  I  should 
not  have  cared  one  way  or  the  other.  I  should 
have  crawled  away  into  a  corner  and  buried 
my  face  to  hide  my  fear's  approach.  I  should 
have  waited  to  see  how  others  acted,  how  others 
fought — and  then,  at  best  I  should  have  fought 
along  in  a  half-hearted,  half-dreading  fashion. 
Even  now,  I  had  nothing  to  fight  for.  I  knew 
what  Judaism  was — and  that  it  was  for  the  God 
and  the  people  of  Judaism  that  I  should  be  mak- 
ing my  little  fight — but — 

I  turned  about  and  saw  the  eyes  of  the  two 
freshmen  glued  upon  me.  Frank's  especially — 
and  they  were  beginning  to  fill  with  a  troubled 
distrust  which  I  had  never  allowed  to  be  there 
before.  I  could  not  fail  Frank.  I  would  do 
what  I  could. 

"All  right,"  I  said,  drawing  on  my  coat.  "Go 
ahead  home  and  get  to  bed.  I  will  see  what 
I  can  do." 

I  went  with  them  across  the  campus  to  the 
other  freshman's  room.  Frank  would  sleep  there 
for  the  night,  though  he  usually  went  back  to 
his  parents.  I  think  he  did  not  have  the  heart 
tonight  to  face  them,  and  when  they  asked  their 
usual  breathless  questions  of  the  day's  work  and 
play,  lie  to  them  and  hide  from  them  the  galling 
incident.  He  did  not  seem  to  feel  the  insult 
for  his  own  sake;  he  was  thinking,  rather,  of 


I  STAND— BUT  NOT  ASIDE  167 

his  mother  and  of  how  she  would  feel,  should 
she  ever  know. 

"Good  night,"  said  the  other  freshman  soberly. 

"Good  night,"  said  Frank — and  I  felt  in  his 
voice  all  of  the  cheery  obligation  of  friendship. 
He  was  expecting  wonders  of  me. 

Walking  on  alone,  across  the  open  gloominess 
of  deserted  paths  and  night  winds  in  the  shrub- 
bery, a  thousand  foolish  fears  tramped  by  my 
side  and  sang  into  my  ears.  I  had  hidden  my 
empty  spirit  from  those  two  boys — but  I  could 
not  hide  it  from  myself.  I  wondered  what  sort 
of  a  fight  was  ahead  of  me,  and  how  long  it 
would  last,  and  what  would  be  the  final  result. 
Those  two  men,  Sayer  and  Braley,  were  among 
the  most  influential  of  the  class.  They  were 
members  of  my  senior  society.  They  could  hold 
me  down  by  sentimental  ties  of  brotherhood, 
much  as  Trevelyan  had  been  held  down  by  his 
fraternity  mates;  failing  that,  they  could  use 
their  popularity,  their  clinch  upon  college  opin- 
ion to  force  me  literally  into  silence.  They  could 
run  me  out  of  college,  if  they  pleased.  I  knew 
this,  did  not  deny  it  to  myself  as  I  went  forward 
to  the  first  skirmish. 

Once  I  turned  around  and  almost  retreated 
to  my  rooms.  But  the  remembrance  of  the  sting 
that  was  in  Frank's  reproachful  look  would  not 
let  me  do  that. 


168          THE  SEVEN-BRANCHED  CANDLESTICK 

So  I  came  to  the  steps  of  the  big  Y.  M.  C.  A. 
building.  They  were  many,  these  white  stone 
steps,  and  they  shone  in  the  moonlight  with 
a  mottling  of  hazardous  shadows.  I  mounted 
them  and  went  into  the  huge  assembly  hall  on 
the  first  floor.  I  heard  the  awkward,  self-con- 
scious benediction  and  adjournment  of  the  meet- 
ing— for  they  were  all  young  fellows,  and  had 
not  yet  learned  to  be  entirely  glib  towards  their 
meetings — and  stood  aside  to  let  them  pass  out. 
As  the  first  of  them  went  through  the  door  and 
out  upon  the  campus,  they  burst  into  the  giddy 
laughs  which  moonlight  conjures — and  I  heard 
them  singing  foolish  glees — snatches  of  song 
that  were  utterly  pagan  and  gleeful,  and  far 
from  the  heated  stuffiness  of  their  prayer  meet- 
ing. They  seemed  to  have  found  their  Kindly 
Light  more  easily  in  the  open. 

The  man  for  whom  I  now  waited  had  always 
been  the  leader  of  my  class;  this  year,  he  was 
the  idol  of  the  entire  university.  Captain  of 
football,  a  'varsity  baseball  man,  he  had  the 
finest,  sincerest  character  that  I  had  ever  known. 
He  was  not  merely  popular,  in  our  undergrad- 
uate sense.  Underclassmen  worshipped  him  from 
afar,  and  upperclassmen,  who  knew  him  and  the 
life  that  he  led,  loved  him  and  respected  him 
with  a  love  and  respect  which  few  men  can  ever 
win. 


I  STAND— BUT  NOT  ASIDE  169 

He  and  I  had  become  friendly,  lately.  It  was 
due,  perhaps,  to  the  fact  that  we  now  belonged 
to  the  same  senior  society.  Before,  I  had  wor- 
shipped from  afar;  now  I  knew  him  well  and 
warmly — and,  as  I  look  back  upon  my  college 
life,  I  am  amazed  to  realize  how  much  of  his 
influence  went  into  the  making  of  it. 

As  he  came  out,  I  noticed  how  his  broad 
shoulders  filled  the  doorway  and  blocked  out  its 
light  completely.  But  his  face  was  above  the 
shadows,  and  I  had  a  sudden  sense  of  comfort 
from  the  resolute  kindliness  that  shone  upon  it. 

"Fred,"  I  said,  "I  want  your  help  on  some- 
thing." 

As  president  of  the  Y.  M.  C.  A.  he  had  a 
room  allotted  him  in  the  building  where  he 
might  sleep.  I  knew  that  he  had  a  suite  in  his 
fraternity  house,  too — but  he  preferred  to  stay 
here,  for  some  reason,  in  this  smaller,  simpler 
place,  where  he  would  be  nearer  his  duties. 

When  he  had  me  in  the  plain  little  den,  sitting 
before  the  miniature  wood  fire  which  he  heaped 
with  broken  twigs,  he  sat  me  down  and  gave 
me  a  few  minutes  of  tactful  silence.  I  was  think- 
ing it  all  out.  I  wanted  to  tell  it  to  him  fairly, 
concisely,  with  no  imprecations,  and  yet  with  no 
weakening  of  attitude.  Then  I  did  tell  it,  simply, 
just  as  the  two  boys  had  told  it  to  me. 

I  saw  Fred's  face  grow  troubled.     Before  I 


170  THE  SEVEN-BRANCHED  CANDLESTICK 

was  through  he  had  begun  to  walk  up  and  down 
the  little  room  with  a  nervousness  that  made  his 
pace  almost  such  a  jog  as  football  players  use 
when  they  come  out  upon  the  field. 

"You're  right,"  he  said  when  I  was  done. 
"You're  so  right  that  everything  else  connected 
with  the  incident  is  wrong — and  that's  the 
hardest  part  for  me  to  admit.  You  deserve  to 
fight  this  out  alone — it  belongs  to  you.  I  wish 
I  had  a  fight  like  yours  to  make.  But  if  you'll 
let  me  help  you — ?" 

"Let  you?    Why,  I  need  your  help!" 

"Then  you'll  have  it.  I'll  be  glad — mighty  glad 
to  chime  in  with  you — " 

He  stopped  short,  his  tremendous  frame  red- 
lined  in  the  fire's  glow,  his  cheeks  above  his 
square  jaw  as  bright  as  the  flames  themselves. 

I  could  not  answer  him  sentimentally.  My 
comfort  and  gratitude  were  too  deep,  my  sud- 
denly gained  encouragement  too  surging  for  the 
narrow  outlet  of  words.  But  after  a  while  we 
began  to  plan.  We  would  fight  it  together — and 
immediately. 

When  I  got  up  to  go,  his  Bible  was  lying  open 
at  the  beginning  of  the  New  Testament,  with  a 
ribbon  and  tiny  silver  cross  to  mark  the  place. 
When  Fred  saw  me  looking  at  it,  he  must  have 
felt  some  part  of  the  strange,  shivery  misgiving 
which  had  come  over  me.  For  he  took  the  rib- 


I  STAND— BUT  NOT  ASIDE  171 

bon  in  his  fingers,  so  that  the  cross  lay  gleaming 
in  his  palm. 

"It  is  Christ's  symbol,"  he  said.  "It  is  the 
sign  of  one  who  suffered — and  who  was  a  Jew." 

Then,  as  if  he  must  leave  me  no  doubt  of  his 
meaning  in  my  mind: 

"Don't  worry.  The  cross  won't  stand  between 
us.  Though — "  His  eyes  travelled  slowly  to  the 
shelf  above  the  fireplace.  "Look!  There's  a 
symbol  of  your  religion,  too  " 

So  I  looked.  Gleaming  brass,  its  seven  up- 
lifting arms  gracefully  curved,  stood  a — Me- 
norah! 


XIX 

"BATTLE  ROYAL!" 

I  AWOKE  the  next  morning  to  an  insistent 
knocking  at  my  door.  I  sprang  out  of  bed  and 
opened  it.  In  the  hall,  their  dress  showing  signs 
of  much  haste,  stood  Saver  and  Braley.  They 
did  not  wait  my  invitation,  but  strode  at  once 
into  the  room  and,  throwing  the  rumpled  covers 
from  the  bed,  plumped  down  upon  it. 

"See  here,"  said  Braley,  without  prelude, 
"what's  this  talk  about  Fred's  calling  a  special 
meeting  of  the  senior  class  for  tonight?  Do 
you  know  anything  about  it?" 

I  smiled  my  way  out  of  a  pajama  top.  "Real- 
ly?" I  exclaimed.  "Well,  I  did  hear  Fred  say 
something  about  it  last  night." 

"Oh,  so  you  talked  it  over  with  him?  Did  you 
ask  for  the  meeting?" 

I  had  thrown  on  a  bathrobe.  "Yes,  I  did. 
Why?" 

"That's  what  we  want  to  know.    Why,  why?" 

I  looked  up  from  tying  the  cord  about  my 
waist.  "That's  just  what  I'm  not  going  to  tell. 
Not  until  the  meeting." 

172 


"BATTLE  ROYAL!"  173 

"Well,  perhaps  we  know." 

"You  probably  do.    You  deserve  to." 

"What  do  you  mean  by  that?"  Sayer  jumped 
up  and  towards  me.  He  was  doing  his  best  to 
fight,  I  could  see — but  I  would  not  give  him  the 
chance — not  prematurely! 

Braley  waved  a  conciliatory  hand.  He  was 
a  large,  stoop-shouldered  fellow  with  long,  light 
hair  and  an  enormous  forehead.  He  had  the 
most  important  and  sumptuous  manners  I  have 
ever  met. 

"See  here,  now,"  he  said,  "you  really  must 
tell  us  all  you  know  about  this  thing.  You 
really  must."  He  was  very  earnest  about  it. 
They  were  both  uneasy,  it  was  easy  to  see. 

"I'll  tell  you  nothing,"  I  said.  "You  will  have 
to  wait  until  tonight,  and  then " 

"Threatening  us,  are  you?" 

"No.  I'm  kind  enough  to  warn  you,  that's 
all.  I  don't  want  you  to  go  to  the  meeting 
unprepared." 

"Oh,  so  it  has  to  do  with  my  remarks  to  the 
freshmen  candidates,  has  it?" 

"And  mine?" 

"I've  given  you  all  the  warning  that  fair  play 
demands,"  I  said.  "Look  to  your  consciences  for 
means  of  defense."  And,  flinging  a  towel  over 
my  shoulder,  I  darted  away  for  my  morning 
shower,  leaving  them  in  possession  of  the  room. 


174          THE  SEVEN-BRANCHED  CANDLESTICK 

When  I  came  back,  a  few  minutes  later,  it  was 
apparently  empty,  and  I  thought  them  gone. 

I  was  almost  dressed  when  I  went  into  the 
clothes  closet  to  select  a  tie  from  the  rack  I 
had  there.  There  was  a  sudden  rustle  and  move- 
ment of  the  clothes  at  the  back  of  the  dark  little 
place.  Two  men  closed  in  on  me,  dragged  me 
into  the  depths  of  the  closet.  I  reached  out 
blindly,  furiously.  My  fists  hit  only  against  the 
rows  of  my  own  clothes  hanging  there.  A  couple 
of  coat-hangers  clattered  down.  I  stumbled  and 
fell  over  my  satchel.  Then  the  door  slammed 
shut.  As  I  lay  there,  stunned,  in  the  darkness, 
I  heard  the  key  turning  in  the  lock,  from  the 
outside.  They  had  sealed  me  in. 

I  had  no  doubts  but  they  had  been  Sayer  and 
Braley.  Though  I  had  never  imagined  they 
would  go  as  far  as  this — and  the  fools!  what 
did  they  think  they  could  accomplish  by  lock- 
ing me  up  for  the  day? 

It  was  easy  enough  to  breathe  in  the  tiny, 
black  square.  I  was  in  no  danger.  I  groped 
my  way  to  the  suitcase  and  sat  down  on  it  for 
a  few  minutes.  My  head  pained  me  terrifically. 
My  forehead  was  hot.  I  put  my  hand  up  to 
it  and  felt  a  fast-swelling  bruise.  My  fingers 
grew  wet  with  something  warm.  It  wasn't  just 
perspiration.  ...  I  knew  that — and  that, 
in  the  struggle,  I  must  have  hit  my  head  against 


"BATTLE  ROYAL!"  175 

one  of  the  hooks.  Or  had  one  of  them  hit  me 
in  the  dark  with  some  sharp  thing  that  he  held  in 
his  hands? 

I  stood  up  again  unsteadily,  found  the  door 
handle — yes,  it  was  locked.  I  was  in  my  stock- 
ing feet;  I  could  not  kick  through  a  panel.  I 
reached  along  the  wall,  found  a  hook.  I  flung 
the  clothes  from  it,  gave  it  both  my  hands  and 
all  my  strength  in  a  sudden  pull.  It  gave  way 
with  a  spurting  of  loosened  plaster. 

It  was  a  large,  heavy  hook.  It  made  a  good 
ram.  I  crashed  upon  the  two  upper  panels  with 
it.  One  of  them  split  at  length — and  when  I 
rammed  the  ugly  iron  thing  against  it  again,  it 
broke  into  splinters  and  my  arm  went  through 
it.  Light  came  through  dimly — and,  three  min- 
utes later,  I  had  knocked  out  the  whole  panel, 
climbed  through  and  staggered  out  into  the 
room. 

The  mirror  showed  me  a  bad  cut  over  my  right 
eye.  I  staunched  the  flow  of  blood  as  best  I 
could.  It  was  so  humorous  an  incident — like 
one  of  the  famous  adventures  of  Frank  Merri- 
well! 

I  played  it  out,  though.  I  did  not  go  out  of 
my  room  the  whole  day.  In  the  afternoon  I  tele- 
phoned Fred,  the  class  president,  about  it.  He 
came  over  to  see  me — and  he  didn't  treat  it  as 
lightly  as  I  did.  He  wanted  me  to  have  a  doc- 


176          THE  SEVEN-BRANCHED  CANDLESTICK 

tor,  for  one  thing.  I  promised  I  would  see  one, 
as  soon  as  the  meeting  was  over,  that  night. 

"You'd  better,"  he  said.  "That  cut  is  mighty 
close  to  some  of  the  most  important  nerves  of 
the  eye." 

It  was  evening  when  I  ventured  out.  Over 
in  the  big  assembly  hall  the  meeting  of  the 
senior  class  had  already  begun.  I  stole  across 
the  campus  with  my  coat  collar  turned  up  and 
my  hat  far  down  to  hide  my  face.  I  did  not 
want  to  be  recognized  until  I  was  ready.  I 
hung  about  outside  the  ruddy  windows  of  the 
hall,  watching  the  crowded  groups  that  sat  with- 
in. They  were  listening  intently  to  someone  on 
the  platform  that  I  could  not  see — but  I  knew 
that  it  was  Fred,  presiding.  Fred — and  he  was 
explaining  it  all  to  them,  perhaps,  in  that  deep- 
voiced  way  of  his. 

Then,  as  I  watched,  I  saw  how  the  heads  of 
all  who  sat  within  the  scope  of  my  spying  craned 
suddenly  towards  the  side  of  the  room.  I  knew 
what  that  meant,  too.  It  meant  that  either 
Sayer  or  Braley  had  risen  from  his  seat  to  make 
reply  to  the  president's  accusation. 

Then,  amazed,  I  heard  applause  and  laughter. 
The  muffled  clapping  of  hands  went  on  for  min- 
utes. So  they  approved  these  things  that  the 
two  editors  had  done,  did  they?  So  they  could 
laugh  and  clap  to  hear  how  Sayer  and  Braley 


"BATTLE  ROYAL!"  177 

had  crushed  the  spirit  out  of  two  young  Jews 
in  front  of  fifty  other  freshmen? 

I  grew  too  angry  to  wait.  I  was  not  going 
to  dawdle  idly  in  the  background,  waiting  for 
a  foolish,  theatrical  entrance  cue — I  wasn't  go- 
ing to  "stand  aside"  a  moment  longer ! 

I  hurried  into  the  building,  up  stairs  and 
around  corners  until  I  was  at  the  very  threshold 
of  the  hall.  The  big  mass  of  men  there,  the  lights, 
the  noise  of  their  clapping,  ten  times  louder  from 
within — all  of  it  gave  a  tightening  to  my  throat. 
My  knees  began  to  tremble  violently. 

It  was  Braley  who  was  speaking.  He  was 
waving  his  hand  with  his  usual  sense  of  the 
grandiloquence  of  his  remarks.  I  heard,  I  sup- 
pose, only  the  last  of  them — but  that  was  enough : 

"I  regret,  of  course,  that  I  should  have  had 
to  give  pain  to  these  two  poor  little  kike  fresh- 
men. I  regret  that  I  have  thereby  offended  no 
less  a  person  than  the  president  of  the  class. 
But  there  is  the  broader  way  of  looking  at  this 
thing :  that  of  the  interest  of  the  whole  commu- 
nity. And  I  believe,  as  every  man  in  this  room 
believes,  that  it  would  be  ten  times  better  that 
all  Jews  be  debarred  from  our  college.  If  not 
that,  then  certainly  from  all  our  college  activ- 
ities, in  order  that  real  Anglo-Saxon  fair  play 
may  prevail!  If  any  man,  including  the  Jew 
who  has  instigated  this  protest  against  Sayer 


178          THE  SEVEN-BRANCHED  CANDLESTICK 

and  myself,  wishes  to  refute  this,  let  him  step 
forward  now  or  be  forever  silent." 

He  sat  down  grandly,  amid  huzzas. 

I  do  not  know  whether  he  or  Sayer  actually 
meant  me  to  be  incarcerated  during  all  that  day 
and  night,  while  the  meeting  went  forward  so 
famously.  Probably  they  had  had  it  in  mind 
when  they  played  the  vindictive  little  prank,  and 
had  been  ashamed,  when  in  better  senses,  to  come 
back  and  release  me.  Certainly  Sayer,  who  sat 
close  to  the  door,  turned  pale  when  he  saw  me 
now. 

I  went  slowly  to  the  front  of  the  room.  My 
eyes  pained  me  and  I  was  nauseated.  But  I 
had  ceased  to  tremble  and  was  calm  with  a  fury 
that  checked  all  nervousness. 

"The  Jew  who  instigated  this  protest  is  here 
to  back  it  up,"  I  said  slowly.  "He  is  here  to 
appeal  to  the  'real  Anglo-Saxon  fair  play.' " 

I  could  feel  in  the  air  the  antagonism  which 
I  must  down.  I  knew,  as  never  before,  how  bitter 
and  insensate  was  the  prejudice  which  I  must 
conquer  by  fifteen  minutes  of  quiet  words. 

What  I  said  doesn't  count :  I  hardly  remember 
most  of  it,  anyhow.  Before  me,  as  I  talked,  the 
faces  swam  away  into  a  dim  and  meaningless 
strip.  I  was  not  talking  to  these  raw,  swanker- 
ing  college  boys.  I  was  talking  to  some- 
thing beyond — to  something  that  was  infinitely 


"BATTLE  ROYAL!"  179 

brighter  and  more  glorious  than  I  had  ever 
known  before.  I  was  talking  to  something  be- 
yond all  earth — to  Someone.  .  .  . 

And  I  was  appealing,  was  summoning,  calling 
Him  down  to  my  aid.  I  was  speaking  His  words, 
in  the  spirit  of  His  ancient  fighting  prophets. 
I  was  fighting  His  fight.  The  calm  frenzy  in 
my  heart  was  of  His  instillation.  For  years  I 
had  sought  Him.  For  years  I  had  shunned  Him, 
knowing  my  need  of  Him.  For  all  the  days  of 
my  life  I  had  borne  the  fierce  justice  of  His  words 
as  a  lonely  burden — and  now,  now.  .  .  . 

"And  I  shall  fight  and  fight,"  I  cried,  "in  the 
name  of  God — the  God  that  is  over  all  of  us, 
of  whatever  race,  creed  or  color — for  the  things 
that  are  fair  and  right  and  just.  I  shall  have 
justice  for  a  little  East  Side  Jewish  freshman 
as  you  shall  have  it,  too." 

Then  suddenly,  as  if  blinded  by  the  refulgence 
of  what  I  saw,  my  eyes  began  to  water  and  grow 
dim.  I  stood  there,  tense,  and  did  not  mind 
the  pain  that  was  in  them.  But  I  could  speak 
no  more. 

And  slowly  the  men  rose  and  went  out,  quietly, 
strangely — looking  back  sometimes  to  where  I 
stood — not  comprehending  everything,  I  suppose, 
but  moved  beyond  all  common  approbation. 
They  had  been  conquered. 

Braley  remained  alone  with  me  in  the  deserted 


180          THE  SEVEN-BRANCHED  CANDLESTICK 

hall.  I  looked  at  him  across  a  row  of  seats  and 
began  to  laugh. 

"You  didn't  even  say  a  word  to  them  about 
that  rotten  trick  we  played  on  you,"  he  said, 
shamefacedly,  his  glib  manners  gone. 

"I  didn't  have  to,"  I  replied.  "Besides,  I  for- 
got." 

"Well — er — thanks!  You  could  have  had  us 
expelled !" 

But  the  pain  and  dizziness  were  beyond  stand- 
ing now.  I  tore  off  my  hat,  so  that  he  had  a 
glimpse  of  the  long,  sullen  cut  over  my  eye. 

"Look  out!"  he  cried,  leaping  up  on  the  plat- 
form, to  hold  me — for  I  was  falling  to  the  floor. 

I  remember  laughing  again,  long  but  weakly. 
"I  didn't  have  to !  I  didn't  have  to !" 

And  after  so  much  light,  there  came  the  dark- 
ness. 


XX 

THE  CANDLES  ARE  LIGHTED 

WHEN  I  rose  from  a  hospital  bed  of  fever  and 
darkness,  ten  days  later,  it  was  with  a  feeling 
of  rebirth — as  if,  in  the  dripping  delirium  of 
threatened  blindness,  the  last  doubts  had  sloughed 
away. 

And  when  the  bandage  was  taken  from  my 
eyes,  and  I  had,  for  the  first  time  in  so  long 
a  while,  a  short  and  tempered  bit  of  sunshine 
that  came  through  the  shaded  windows  and 
across  the  clean,  white  floors,  it  was  as  if  I 
saw  things,  now,  as  I  had  never  seen  them — 
face  to  face. 

I  must  not  return  immediately  to  college,  the 
doctors  said.  There  must  be  another  fortnight 
of  convalescence,  with  absolute  rest  for  my  eyes. 
They  gave  me  my  choice  as  to  where  I  wanted 
to  go — and  I  chose  the  settlement.  I  should  be 
among  friends,  down  there;  I  should  have  the 
sunny  roof-garden  to  loiter  in — and  Jewish  faces 
everywhere  about  me. 

It  was   good   old   Trevelyan,    squinting   and 

stuttering  and  strangely  moved,  who  called  for 

181 


182          THE  SEVEN-BRANCHED  CANDLESTICK 

me  in  his  car  and  took  me  away  from  the  hos- 
pital. He  had  wanted  me  to  go  to  his  Adirondack 
lodge,  instead,  and  resigned  me  into  Mr.  Rich- 
ards' care  at  the  settlement  as  if  he  were  con- 
signing me  relunctantly  to  one  of  the  Inferno's 
inner  limbos. 

It  was  then  the  second  day  of  the  Jewish  New 
Year.  The  whole  teeming  neighborhood  was  in 
holiday  garb  and  mood.  From  the  roof  that 
night  Mr.  Richards  and  I  stood  watching  the 
streets  and  their  carnival  crowds,  swarming  in- 
distinctly under  the  lamps  and  about  the  corners. 

"The  little  people,"  quoted  Mr.  Richards, 
"God  and  the  little  people  .  .  ." 

"They  are  not  little  when  they  have  God," 
I  answered. 

He  nodded.  "I  was  wrong  in  what  I  said  in 
that  argument  of  ours.  Do  you  remember?  I 
said  they  didn't  need  their  religion — that  it  was 
working  more  harm  than  good  among  the  younger 
generation.  I've  learned,  now  .  .  .  There 
isn't  a  person  on  earth  that  doesn't  need  it — all 
that  he  can  get  of  it — and  these  little  people 
of  the  East  Side  most  of  all." 

From  below  there  rose  to  us  the  clang  and 
clatter  of  traffic,  the  indescribable  rustle  of  the 
crowd,  the  shriek  of  a  demon  fire  engine,  many 
streets  away.  But,  above  it  all,  we  heard  sing- 
ing, on  the  floor  below  us,  of  a  solemn  chant 


THE  CANDLES  ARE  LIGHTED  183 

in  rehearsal.  It  was  the  settlement  Choral 
Society,  singing  the  plaintive  "Kol  Nidre" — 
and  when  the  parts  swelled  into  unison,  all  other 
sounds  seemed  suddenly  engulfed  in  the  rich, 
melancholy  texture  of  the  harmony. 

Mr.  Kichards  smiled.  "There  it  is,  you  see: 
the  grim,  sad  faith  of  the  Jewish  people.  It  is 
all  they  have  had  in  all  their  wanderings — but 

it  is  everything." 

*    *    * 

The  cut  across  my  forehead  healed  quickly. 
Besting  from  all  tasks,  my  eyes  regained  their 
strength  without  relapse. 

I  had  visitors.  Several  of  the  men  from  col- 
lege came  down  each  day.  I  had  not  known  there 
were  so  many  persons  who  cared.  Braley  was 
among  them,  once — and  he  sat  and  twisted  his 
hat  and  said  nothing.  Whether  or  not  his  friend- 
ship is  worth  anything  to  me,  I  have  made  a 
friend  of  him.  Once  or  twice,  since  then,  he  has 
tried  to  speak  of  the  trick  which  he  and  Sayer 
attempted,  but  I  have  stopped  him.  There  is 
no  need  of  going  over  that. 

Only,  a  few  days  after  I  went  to  the  hospital, 
there  was  a  long  and  flowery  retraction  published 
in  the  college  newspaper,  inviting  all  freshmen 
"of  whatever  race  or  creed  to  enter  the  editorial 
competition,  with  the  assurance  that  the  most 
democratic  principles  would  prevail." 


184  THE  SEVEN-BRANCHED  CAJSJ  DLEST1UK 

At  any  rate,  when  Frank  Cohen  ran  in  to 
see  me,  on  his  way  home,  a  few  days  later,  I 
advised  him  to  re-enter  the  contest.  Frank,  with 
a  freshman's  capacity  for  hero  worship,  leaped 
to  act  on  my  advice. 

"And  hurry  up  back  to  college,"  he  said,  with 
a  little  catch  in  his  voice.  "There  are  twenty 
other  Jewish  underclassmen  who  want  the  same 
sort  of  counsel  from  you.  You  see — they  didn't 
know  they  had  a  leader — and  they  do  need  one !" 

It  is  not  part  of  the  tale,  perhaps,  but  I  can- 
not help  intruding  the  fact  that  Frank  was  the 
first  freshman  to  be  elected  to  the  editorial  board 
of  the  college  paper — and  that,  in  his  senior  year, 

he  became  its  managing  editor. 
*     *     # 

My  aunt  came,  too.  I  had  been  secretly  ex- 
pecting her — hoping,  perhaps,  for  no  especial 
reason,  that  she  would  come. 

She  wept  a  little  at  the  sight  of  my  healing 
scar.  It  was  a  long  while  since  I  had  seen  her, 
and  it  shocked  me — she  looked  so  worn.  She 
clung  to  my  hand  for  several  minutes  before 
she  would  speak. 

"I  read  about  it,"  she  sobbed.  "It  was  in  the 
papers — and  they  said  the  nicest  things  of  you 
.  .  .  But  I  didn't  come  sooner  because — be- 
cause I  didn't  know  whether  you  wanted — you 
wanted — " 


THE  CANDLES  ARE  LIGHTED  185 

"Yes,  Aunt  Selina,  I  am  very  glad  to  see 
you." 

She  drew  a  deep  sigh.  "It  has  been  so  long 
— and  I  am  growing  old.  I'm  just  a  lonely  old 
woman,  boy.  And  there's  no  comfort  in  old  age." 

I  looked  at  her.  She  had  changed  much,  I 
thought.  "But  you  had  so  many  friends,"  I 
remonstrated.  "All  those  intellectual  society 
folk!" 

"I  don't  know — they  don't  seem  to  interest 
me  any  more.  I'm  growing  old.  That's  all — 
old  and  lonely.  And  they  are  such  fools,  every 
one  of  them — almost  as  foolish  as  I  am — and 
hypocrites,  all." 

Her  hand  went  tighter  about  mine,  and  her 
rheumy  eyes  sought  mine  and  searched  them. 
"You  seem  so  happy,  boy — so  changed.  What's 
the  secret  of  it — can't  you  tell  me?" 

I  shook  my  head.  It  would  be  of  no  use,  I 
thought. 

"I  want  it,"  she  begged.  "The  comfort  of  it 
— I  did  not  know  I  should  need  it  when  I  was 
old — and  when  all  else  fell  away." 

So  I  reached  for  a  book  which  was  on  a  table 
nearby,  and  gave  it  to  her.  It  was  an  old  Union 
Prayer  Book. 

She  took  it  with  the  barest  flicker  of  lashes. 
"It's — it's  Hebrew,"  she  protested.  I  don't 
know  how  to  read  it." 


186          THE  SEVEN-BRANCHED  CANDLESTICK 

"There  is  always  an  English  translation  on 
the  opposite  page,"  I  showed  her.  "You  will 
be  able  to  read  that.  Perhaps  it  will  help  you." 

"Perhaps,"  she  said  after  me,  her  thin  voice 
quavering. 

"Bead  it  all.  You  will  come  at  any  rate  to 
a  better  understanding  of  your  fellow  Jews." 

Her  head  went  down,  as  if  in  shame  of  some 
unpleasant  reminiscence.  "Perhaps — I  will  try, 
anyhow — and  perhaps — " 

"Aunt  Selina,"  I  told  her  hastily,  "I  am  com- 
ing home  to  live  with  you  at  the  end  of  this 
college  year.  We  shall  begin  all  over  again." 

Then  her  tears  began  afresh.  "I  did  not  dare 
ask  it — but  oh,  if  you  could  only  know  how  I 
have  wanted  it — and  for  how  long!  I  would 
have  prayed  for  it— yes,  really,  prayed  for  it — 
if  I  had  only  had  someone  to  pray  to!" 

And  then,  as  if  suddenly  remembering,  she 
hugged  the  shabby  leather  book  to  her  breast, 
and  smiled. 

But,  before  she  left,  I  opened  it  up  to  show 
her  why  I  prized  this  particular  copy.  For, 
on  the  yellowed  flyleaf  in  old  ink,  was  the  name, 
"Isidore  Levi."  And  below  it,  newly  written, 
these  words : 

"To  a  Jew  who  could  not  stand  aside" 

He  had  sent  it  to  me  immediately  after  he 
had  learned  of  that  last  incident  at  college.  And 


THE  CANDLES  ARE  LIGHTED  187 

he  did  not  need  to  explain  where  I  had  seen 

this  prayer  book  last. 

*  *    * 

Yom  Kippur  was  my  last  day  at  the  settle- 
ment before  returning  to  college.  I  went  with 
Frank  Cohen  and  his  father  to  the  service  of 
their  orthodox  congregation.  The  little  syna- 
gogue, just  off  the  Bowery,  had  had  to  be  aban- 
doned, for  once,  in  favor  of  a  huge  bare  hall 
that  usually  served  political  meetings.  But, 
large  as  it  was,  it  was  packed  tightly ;  and  from 
the  gallery,  where  I  stole  once  to  look  on,  it 
seemed  a  vast  black  sea — wave  upon  wave  of 
derbies  and  shiny  top  hats,  with  the  flicker  of 
white  prayer  shawls  for  froth.  The  prayers  and 
the  chantings  came  up  to  me  almost  like 
mystic  exhalations.  The  great,  drab,  smeared 
walls  had  the  splendor  of  the  afternoon  sun  up- 
on them ;  the  cheap  chairs,  the  improvised  altar, 
the  temporary  gilt  ark  behind  it — the  long  gray 
beards  of  the  patriarchs,  the  wan  faces  of  the  fast- 
ing children — everything,  every  one  had  been 
gradually  drenched  in  the  glory  that  poured 
through  the  windows. 

It  was  the  setting  sun  upon  Israel — and  Israel 

prayed  and  sang  in  the  gold  of  it. 

*  «    * 

I  went  back  to  college  the  next  day.     Mr. 
Richards  and  I  had  breakfast  together,  so  that 


188          THE  SEVEN-BRANCHED  CANDLESTICK 

we  might  say  slowly  and  easily  the  last  things 
that  were  to  be  said. 

"I'm  glad  you're  going  to  finish  it  out,"  he 
began.  "You've  proved  what  I  once  told  you; 
that  college  isn't  all  child's  play.  Some  things 
about  it  are,  of  course."  He  paused  a  moment, 
a  little  embarrased.  "Trevelyan  phoned  me  last 
night,  after  you'd  gone  to  bed." 

"Yes?    About  me?" 

"Well,  in  a  way.  He'd  just  come  from  one  of 
our  fraternity  meetings.  He  wanted  to  tell  me 
that,  when  you  are  back,  they  will  probably  of- 
fer you  an  election." 

"What?    To  your  fraternity?" 

"Yes."  He  paused  and  watched  me  amusedly. 
"It  doesn't  seem  to  thrill  you." 

I  smiled  back  at  him.  "No,  not  the  way  I 
would  have  in  freshman  year." 

"Yes — that's  how  I  thought  you'd  feel.  You 
needn't  be  afraid  of  hurting  my  feelings — or 
Trevelyan's,  either — by  declining.  They're  a 
little  too  late,  aren't  they?" 

"Oh,  it  isn't  that.  I  don't  want  them  to  think 
me  ungrateful,  you  see — but  I've  passed  that 
stage.  There  are  so  many  other  things  for  me  to 
care  about,  now."  I  was  thinking  of  Frank 
Cohen's  remark  about  the  number  of  Jewish  un- 
derclassmen who  wanted  counsel,  leadership — 
and,  now  more  than  ever,  I  was  sure  of  myself. 


180 

"I  understand,"  said  Mr.  Richards,  shaking 
my  hand  at  parting.  "Good  luck  to  you — or 
better  still,  good  faith  to  you !  A  man's  work  and 

a  man's  God — you've  found  them  at  last." 
*    *    * 

That  night,  in  my  room  at  college,  I  found  on 
the  mantle  shelf  the  big,  brass,  seven-branched 
candlestick  which  I  had  seen  in  the  room  of  the 
class  president.  It  was  Fred's  gift  to  me. 

And,  thinking  of  those  years,  I  lit  the  seven 
candles,  one  by  one,  and  watched  them  struggle 
feebly,  desperately,  until  all  of  them  were  calm 
and  bright,  their  flicker  ended — until  the  Me- 
norah,  with  its  uplifted  arms,  and  all  the  little 
space  about  it,  shone  with  a  radiance  that  was 
firm  and  beautiful. 


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